One year
by kouw
Summary: Series of drabbles, having one thing in common: a measure of time. All drabbles stand alone (if not, it will be in the author's note). Angst, romance, fluff. Ratings K thru M. Chapter 15 picks up with a Choose Your Own Adventure style of ficcing. Don't hesitate to vote!
1. worst case scenario

It's been a year since we've buried you.

You must have known how much I cared for you, I knew exactly where we stood, what we had together. Though except for me missing you, in my own way, everything is much the same here. Perhaps some small things are different, but it's hardly been a year, Charles, you cannot expect great life altering changes.

There's still the dressing gong being rung at six, there's still grapes from the greenhouses, his Lordship still walks Isis in the afternoon. But they've replaced the curtains in our rooms, I'm afraid. The house runs almost smoothly without you. The 'Times' comes in the morning, Mr Bates irons it. Jimmy's gone to Lady Anstruther's. Daisy to the farm. Lady Mary has her suitors. But while I think of all this normalcy, there's gaping holes where you used to be. The fact the silver isn't as shiny as it used to be speaks volumes.

Charles, I keep thinking of what you said: "We shout and scream and wail and cry, but in the end we must all die". That life is a circle, renewing all the time. But it's not true, because only you were you, your footsteps will never be filled. When I see your pantry, you should be in there and I miss you by my side at the table.

Life goes on and a year apart is long, too long, much too long. Still there is nothing much to report. Old Lady Grantham still disapproves of nearly everything, Tom is still uneasy, Lady Edith even more so. And Anna's told me there's a baby on the way. Which is wonderful news.

Really.

* * *

Elsie crumpled up the letter with shaking hands and threw it in the wastepaper bin. She got up, smoothed her skirt and left her room.

She had work to do.

* * *

**A/N: **Based on 'Kees', by Michel van der Plas


	2. planning ahead

They are speaking of their day whilst sipping sherry, nibbling on leftover biscuits (there is really no such thing as 'leftover biscuits', it's something they tell themselves, it's one of their few indulgences). Their routine of many years is speckled with talk of the future. Of a cottage on the outskirts of the estate and sleeping in. She blushes prettily - like she does whenever the more physical side of their arrangements come up - and he clears his throat. They look at each other, flashes of longing and quiet embarrassment.

In the dim light of her parlour they try to speak frankly; she is not one for holding back, he is not the kind of man to let sleeping dogs lie, but it's not easy. Their conversation is laced with difficult swallowing and searching for the right words. She has never admitted the low rumble of his voice stirs her, he has never confessed he sees her in his dreams. He loves her, of that she is certain, he never doubts her love for him.

He worries about the practical side of things: he has calculated the cost of living, has made an inventory of the things he will bring with him to their new home (it's not much, their rooms are small, servants' possessions as a rule are few). She wonders about the physical side of things: which side of the bed will he prefer and it's been so long since she's had any kind of physical intimacy, the thought of this tall, broad man cradled between her legs is slightly disconcerting.

He empties his glass when she does and they both reach for the last biscuit. He picks it up and breaks it in half. It's these things that make her think it will all be alright. She has lived within the walls of Downton, devoting herself to her work. Now the time will come she will share her life with him. He is a bit intimidated he will be living his life alongside this strong, beautiful woman. But it will be a privilege. They will be happy. After all: they can afford to live a little.


	3. things that go bump in the night

Phyllis Baxter has been at Downton Abbey for one year when she is shaken up in the middle of the night by the sound of a heavy thud, followed by a chuckle. She hears the echo of a slap and a high pitched gasp. There's mumbling and the sound of someone scrambling up from the floor and the creaking of a bed. Shuffling of blankets and the unmistakable noise of people kissing.

"Naughty!"

The word enters her room as clear as crystal. Phyllis remembers nights filled with solitude, sometimes sliced in half by the sounds of the same shuffling and swatting, sounds of kissing and low moans turning into groans, the creaking of the bed, her mother panting, her father gasping. She used to push her pillow against her ears, curl up under the covers, humming lowly under her breath to have something else fill her ears.

She has been happy here at Downton, even with the constant threat of Thomas hovering over her. Mr Molesley is standing up for her, there's the quiet companionship of Anna, the kindnesses from Mrs Hughes and the obvious praise of Lady Grantham: it all adds to her feeling at home and it's been so long since she has felt right with the world.

"Oh God..." The words are uttered in a wave of ecstasy, Phyllis recognises it but has not experienced it in years. She has learned her lesson. The sounds cease. She has located them coming from the room across the hall. The Housekeeper's room, the only one she has never seen the interior of. The muffled voice is definitely the Butler's.

While the noise dies (the door has opened, there was another kiss, whispered 'I love yous', the sound of the lock of the dividing door) she tosses and turns, unable to fall asleep again. Phyllis doesn't begrudge the pair their joy, but she feels trapped in their secret, an unwilling witness.

At breakfast the pair doesn't behave out of the ordinary, though she notices a look of pain flashing over Mr Carson's face as he sits down, a tiny little smirk quirking the corner of Mrs Hughes' mouth. Lady Grantham's' bell rings early and Phyllis makes her way up to her mistress room. Lady Grantham sips from her orange juice while Phyllis draws the curtains.

"Are you alright, Baxter? You look a bit drawn."

"I'm fine, Milady, I've just had a bit of a rough night."

"Not ill, I hope." Phyllis detects genuine concern in her mistress' voice.

Phyllis sighs. "Things that go bump in the night." She blushes, she can feel the heat spreading over her face.

"Bump in the night?" Cora repeats rather dully.

"It's of no consequence Milady."

"It is if it keeps you up, I need you bright and strong, Baxter."

"I'm sure it's not a regular occurrence, Milady."

"What isn't?"

"The sounds."

"Honestly Baxter, you do vex me. What sounds?"

Phyllis clears her throat, her blush still firmly in place, her voice failing as she stammers: "The sounds of two people together…"

"Oh. Yes." Lady Grantham is all business. "Really, they should move to a cottage, especially if they are going to be loud."

And this was how Phyllis Baxter was the last one to find out about the relationship between the butler and housekeeper of Downton Abbey.

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**A/N:** A bit longer than the previous two and a rather abrupt ending, for which I am truly sorry - but it's for a reason! Please do not hesitate to review, honestly, reviews make me so happy.


	4. falling

He's been a footman for a long while when he's promoted. He works alongside Mrs Beckett and she hires a beautiful, feisty, ridiculously sensible headhousemaid to train to follow in her footsteps and it's horrible but true:

he who has never looked at a woman after the whole ordeal with Alice Neal, falls head over heels with a Scottish maid who is having none of anyone's lip and is as practical as she is pretty.

Of course he keeps it from her. It's of no use:

He has nothing to offer her and he is afraid of repeating the past. He sees her blossom under Mrs Beckett's careful guidance. He sees how she notices every little thing. He knows she is already a favourite of the young Lady Grantham and of the two youngest girls. Mary (he almost thinks of her as _his_) however won't be swayed, it's as if the girl sees something of herself in the almost unapproachable housemaid.

Then Mrs Beckett leaves and Elsie puts away her aprons and caps and transforms into Mrs Hughes, running a staff of at least thirty girls at the bright young age of thirty-five. He admires her. She is gorgeous in her new dresses. She is young still and he is not much older, but his fear - and anger at the past - grows.

He loves her. He loves her and it's of no use. He often finds himself staring at her, asking her advice, relying heavily on her.

And he does not know what to do about it.

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**A/N:** I did it! I managed to keep under the 300 word limit! (of course reviews are limitless ;) )


	5. touch

She adores the way he runs his hand up her side, her body reacting at its own accord. His other hand cupping her face, his lips soft on hers. It's been a year, two, ten, more, but she never regrets opening her door and herself to him. He loves her, she loves him, she fits exactly against his lines, her curves accommodating him. She adores him; not his inflexible traditions, not his rigid routines, but his chest hair between her fingers, his weight on top of her. The moments he shares his emotions with her, the sparing jokes he makes (he makes her laugh, she warms under his words of care). She loves him settling over her, widening her thighs slowly, his caress always tender.

She loves him - she loves him - and she arches her back, presses her breasts against his chest, licks his shoulder - he is so much taller, she cannot kiss his face, but she can touch it and she opens her eyes, looking straight into his, filled with love and kindness and lust and she shudders, unable to breathe for a moment, seeing stars and keeping her long moan as quiet as she can.

He pulls out, still hard, moist with her slickness and she reaches for him, stroking him up and down, slowly, speeding up until he comes over her stomach. She is sure he no longer needs to, but old habits die hard - he is a proverbial old dog and they've done it like this for so very long. He cleans her up quicky and she opens her arms. He falls asleep upon her chest and she glances at the calendar - only 24 weeks now. Twenty-four weeks before a double bed and sleeping in.

She sighs contentedly.

* * *

**A/N: **300 words exactly, according to my wordprocessor. BOOM.


	6. future song

_Pregnant._ She closes her eyes, tears pricking against the lids, then softly rolling over her cheeks, wet and hot. They've only been gone a year and now this. She doesn't know what to say, what to think, feels overwhelmed by the word that leaves nothing to the imagination.

She loves children, always has. She has a knack for caring. Infants, toddlers, big strapping lads, giggling young maids of only fifteen - she's always handled their needs perfectly. Joyfully even.

She keeps her eyes closed and a hand wraps around hers.

"I understand." The words are plainly spoken, emotion scratching the edges of the phrase. She nods, swallows a few times.

She squeezes the small hand that's holding hers. "I've wanted this for you." She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "I'm so happy for you."

Her voice is cracked, but her heart is singing.

* * *

**A/N:** 150 words. Blammo!


	7. direction

**A/N:** Baxter is back! Guys, I love Baxter, I cannot wait to see more of her the coming series.

* * *

She is surprised she didn't see it before, but time has passed since the thud and giggle in the night and she's learned the love between the housekeeper and butler is the worst kept secret of Downton Abbey. There are no ghosts in the attics, few scandals - from before the war, foreign diplomats dying in their beds or some such, Lady Edith's little surprise, but she's found her way through, the news never reached further than the font of Downton's parish church - and there are no rumours. There's only this one thing everyone is aware of and keeps their eyes closed to.

Is this why it's such a different household? Besides servants put up in a cottage, the mixed balls at Christmas? Besides being called into the Housekeeper's parlour for a talk over tea and biscuits about Mr Molesley's intentions and the heartfelt warning 'to be careful'?

Phyllis knows that if she were to tell her dark secret to the housekeeper, it would be safe, but the housekeeper is burdened by many a secret already besides the obvious one hidden in plain sight. Though perhaps they don't mean keep it a secret at all. The way Mrs Hughes pushes Mr Carson out of the room, the way he tuts at her, the looks of understanding during dinner, their bickering. Sometimes it looks like they are flirting: naughty words spoken by Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson's dry comebacks.

Phyllis is suddenly reminded of that day when they all went to the beach and she saw them holding hands whilst standing in the water. They looked so happy then and she wonders:

Maybe she can model her future after the example set by the Housekeeper. Perhaps this can be the way for Joseph and her.


	8. first anniversary

AU WARNING 'The Carsons' universe

* * *

_Their first anniversary_

Her dresses have been laid out, she contemplates chucking her corset every day, her belly is expanding at an alarming rate. How does a wife entice her husband when she is six months pregnant?

Tears well up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. She sits bent over her desk, a pen in hand, ledger at an angle and a tear smudges the ink.

The door opens, but it's not his familiar footfall behind her, so she quickly pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes before turning around and finding Beryl standing there with a tray of tea and biscuits.

The sight pushes her over an invisible edge and Elsie weeps, startling Beryl, who puts down the tray and places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"What's all this?"

"Nothing." Elsie replies.

"It's obviously not nothing if you are crying so much the windows are misting up." Beryl says practically.

"I'm unsightly." Elsie mumbles.

"Hardly that, my dear." Beryl even chuckles. "He still thinks you are the most beautiful woman on God's good Earth."

"How do you know?" Elsie asks through her tears.

"Because I see the way he looks at you."

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**A/N:** Thank you, Hogwarts Duo, for letting me play in your sandbox. (PS 200 words! KABLAM!)


	9. recovery

She lies in bed, recovering from one of her sick headaches. They don't come as often as they used to, always announcing particularly brutal menses. It's been a year since the last one. She is fifty-three, it's high time she's rid of them. She wonders if her staff ever noticed the pattern - if you can speak of one by now.

Anna and Daisy have been up with a cup of tea and some sympathetic words. Elsie is getting rather hungry, but she doesn't trust herself to go down the steep and narrow stairs. Her legs are wobbly, her head still swimming. She'll have to wait it out.

Just as she is falling asleep again, she hears his footsteps outside her door and a quiet knock. She calls him in quickly, not wanting him to be caught on the wrong side of the dividing door. He stands in the door opening with a plate. She smells toast and her stomach rumbles. She bites her lip and he smiles.

"I thought you might be hungry."

"You know me well." She responds with a smile. He sets the plate down on her nightstand and she picks up the triangle of toast. She nibbles carefully, knowing she shouldn't be taking too big a bite.

"How are you?" He asks as he sits down next to her on the bed.

"Recovering." He nods.

They sit together quietly.

"I wish I could help you." He says then and leans against him.

"I know. There is nothing to be done. Time will heal."

"I'll miss you the coming week."

"Why, Charles, I'll be down again tomorrow morning!"

"That's not what I meant." His cheeks colour slightly and she cannot help but smile.

"I know. I'll miss you too." She has finished her toast. She is tired. He notices and makes to leave.

"Don't go." She grabs hold of his sleeve, preventing him from standing up. She kisses him.

"It won't be a week." She promises.

* * *

**A/N:** Much too intimate for the 1920s - men had no bloody _clue_ (do you all remember Dr Clarkson telling Robert 'things had become irregular' when Cora fell pregnant?). Still - made for fun writing ;)


	10. coming home

**The Carsons Universe**

_their first anniversary (2) : Coming Home_

The light from the fire dances over her skin, highlighting every dip and curve of her newly altered body. She is so beautiful as she lies there, waiting for him to join her in their bed, the covers pulled back, covering her belly - he can tell she is insecure about it, worried even, though there is no need: he's never seen her as beautiful as she is now: her breasts full and heavy, her face slightly less angular, her skin healthy and glowing. Her belly is a reminder of their love, the fact that between them they have created magic, something he had never thought possible before he met her.

She has given him all a man could want: love, affection, respect and all of it without losing herself. She is as independent, as witty, practical and strong-minded as she ever was. She has not changed in all the time he has known her, though their circumstances have. Their courtship - not the demure, shy kind you read about in novels, but a sensible time filled with plans and hopes that they are now trying to make reality. They have been married a year and soon they will be a family.

The thought fills him with joy and a happiness he has seldom experienced.

"Are you not coming to bed?" She asks, biting her lip in that way she has that never fails to make him want to kiss her.

"I've been waiting…" She adds and subtly shifts so he gets a wonderful view of her.

"Can't have that…" He manages to say, love and lust coursing through his veins. He pulls off his tails, his waistcoat, kicks off his shoes. He peels off his shirt and his trousers, quickly gets rid of his socks and finally he takes off his vest and slides under the sheets next to her.

She is warm and soft, her skin against his makes him tingle. He kisses her, tenderly first, but she is not having it. She pulls him flush against her - he feels her bump press against his lower belly - and ravishes his mouth, her hips already rocking slightly against his and he comes to life between them, his hands finding the roundness of her breasts, flicking her nipples to attention whilst their kiss becomes a dance, a duel and he has to have her closer.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and she embraces him. "Happy anniversary…" She whispers in his ear. The soft wisps of air send shivers down his spine.

"God woman… what you do to me…" He mumbles against her collarbone, kissing and nipping his way to her breast. She presses herself against him when he softly sucks on her nipple and allows his hand to travel further down. He gently nudges her legs apart and she moans deeply when he slides the pad of his middle finger over the soft nub at the top of her folds. She is slippery, she has been so receptive since… Well, he cannot think of that now, he cannot think she is carrying his child, he needs her to be his wife right now, to be the object of his affection and his desire: they are celebrating who they are together, not what they will be soon.

She has manoeuvred to her knees, her head thrown back as he touches her deliberately. She pants, holding on to him, allowing one hand to run through his chest hair, but she seems unable to do much more, caught in pleasure. He kisses the long column of her throat, her shoulder and pulls away his hand from her center. She whimpers, even pouts. She lets him push her back against the mattress and lets her legs fall open, ready to welcome him into her warmth.

He realises that every time she allows him to take her, it feels safe and he feels loved and happy and it's Elsie who makes him feels this way. To finally feel like he_ belongs_. But he's not quite ready to come home to her. He wants to touch her first, to run his hands over her calves and the underside of her knees, to stroke the impossibly soft skin of her inner thighs, the creases where her legs meet her body. He wants to lay his hands over her hipbones - though they are starting to become hidden, obscured from sight by his child, to softly press the sides of his thumbs over her sides towards her breasts (he cannot get enough of her breasts - they have never been so perfect) and he wants to kiss every inch of her.

She is impatient, she lays her hands around his arms, trying to get close, kissing him where she can, curling her legs around his, pulling him into her heat and he cannot deny her - he can never deny her anything - and he plunges in, the pair of them crying out in unison. He thinks he can hear her whisper 'finally', but he is too wrapped up in the sensations to take much notice. He looks at her, pinned under him, a happy smile on her lips, her eyes bright, glinting in the dim light of the glowing embers. They have been taking their time, it appears, but he has lost all sense of time, of place. All he knows he has to be with her.

Forever.

* * *

**A/N:** So here's the thing: I cannot write smutty drabbles. I need many words to convey what is going on. But it's less than a thousand at least? And they are not quite done yet…

Of course reviews are terribly appreciate it, please don't hesitate to comment. It's really lovely to get in contact with people who read fanfiction: it's what makes this more than just a bunch of people writing stories.  
It's what makes us a community.


	11. absolution

Elsie turns over one last time. 'Five more minutes' she thinks. She puts her hand against the wall. Behind this wall is her future husband, probably nervously shaving himself.

She is four hours away of becoming his wife. Her dress is hanging from the empty wardrobe - it's new, frivolous - her valise is packed. She blushes when she thinks of how she has spent a whole year embroidering their initials on sheets and pillowcases. Her blush deepens when she thinks of how people will know she will be lying between these sheets with Charles.

This very evening.

This will be the first time without the voice of her mother in her ear, condemning her. Without any guilt towards her girls ringing loud and clear (decades of hypocrisy will be wiped out by a few sentences; half an hour before the eyes of God and the face of the congregation will do the trick).

She hears him on the other side of the wall.

Four hours until walls between them will be a thing of the past.

She stretches and sits up. She had best get dressed.

She doesn't want to make him wait.

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**A/N:** Under 200 words. A stark contrast with yesterday's drabble! Reviews very much appreciated.


	12. check mate

The chasm between her work persona and her actual self is so large by now, she feels like she is a player in a particularly repetitive game. She besieges the house every single day, dusts and disorders her enemy. She is general of this warland and she wins every battle.

But when the night falls and they are alone, he lovingly conquers her and she is pinned under him, panting, writhing. She has to keep the firmest of grips on herself not to beg him to fill her belly with his child.

She is 36 and she has been housekeeper for a little over year. She has been his mistress for exactly that time. She loves him. A quaint, unwanted feeling she has no need for.  
She needs a child even less.  
She will not allow for him to ruin her. She is an independent woman. She only has to please herself at the end of the day - or allow him to do it for her (and she does, often).

His hand is on her breast, his lips against her collarbone, his hips between her thighs: this is where she forgets. This is where she is not a housekeeper or a daughter, a friend. Here she is his and she arches against him, crying without making a sound, her face turned towards him; vulnerable. Here she knows all the dreams she has given up, all the hopes she has buried.

She doesn't want him to dig them up, but she allows it nonetheless. She is his prisoner of war and perhaps he is hers. There is no way back, nor one forward. This is where she surrenders to him and he gives himself up to her. They are King and Queen in this on-going competition and they rule their parts separately, but face their battle together, holding on tight.

Towards victory.

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**A/N:** This is my favourite in the bunch I think. I have worked on it for almost a week and I am so pleased to be posting it just before the weekend. Reviews and commentary are very much appreciated.


	13. hardest thing of all

One year has been unaccounted for. A hole in her resume. None of her employer ever doubted her when she told them she had been caring for her ailing mother. Her dying mother if she needed to emphasize. She often thinks of that year, a year that was filled with hardship, sadness and worry and one she wants to forget but cannot. Not when there always seems to be something to remind her.

Ethel getting carried away by an officer (Elsie knows officers are seldom gentlemen, oh how she knows) and trying to bring up her child alone, being destined to a life of ruin until she decided to give up her child. Elsie had stood there watching Ethel and little Charlie (such a bonnie wee lad, sturdy legs and chubby cheeks and a little voice full of wonder) and her heart had broken all over again. Shattered. She had contradicted Mrs Crawley, had said too much to Ethel: 'You've done a hard thing, the hardest thing of all."

She is thankful nobody ever asked her about it again.

Now Lady Edith's secret has come out and the girl stood strong, her head held high, proud even and Elsie wishes she had had the strength, the means to have done the same. But her child is forever lost to her and all she can do is hope it's had a good life with loving parents who had chosen her child to be theirs.

Of course she knows better. She is highly aware she lies to herself. Orphanages are dreary places, devoid of love and chances.

She lies awake at night, her only confidantes asleep - not that she could confide in them. She will condemn her and he will never look at her again.

This secret she will take to her grave.

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**A/N:** I keep on coming back to this scene - how does Elsie know Ethel giving up Charlie is the 'hardest thing of all'? The logical answer is that Elsie Hughes is an empathic person, another answer might be along these lines. Reviews, commentary and debate highly encouraged!


	14. happiness

**A/N: **300 exactly. The Carsons' universe

* * *

One year was all it took to go from two people to becoming almost three, but as she lays here under him, his strong arms on either side of her shoulders, she doesn't mind much. She had wanted more time to be just the two of them, to be carefree for a little while longer, but she has made her peace with the hand life had dealt them. She bucks her hips in time with his, her bump is starting to get in the way of their usual ways of making love. She had worried about this but Charles had smiled at her roguishly, telling her they would find new ways to enjoy each other.

Looking back she can pinpoint how she ended up in her current condition. One of their first 'fights' - misunderstandings, discussions. She had been so frustrated with him and angry with him, it had taken a long time and a lot of talking before they made up. She doesn't remember what the fuss had been about, all she knows is that he had stealthily retrieved half a bottle of sherry and they had shared it between them.

She had felt warm and happy and so in love with him and she had given herself so easily. So completely. She had not told him to be careful, to pull out, to _think_. Her child had been conceived in happiness and love. Perhaps this little trip up has been the best thing that ever happened to her. She places her hand against his cheek. "Thank you…" she whispers.

"Thank you for making me so happy." And she buries her face in the crook of his neck as he caresses her, touches her and she holds her breath as she falls with him, deliciously, over the edge.


	15. leaving

He runs his hands over her sides, letting them slip under the skirts she holds up for him and she sinks against him, allowing him to touch her in between the pleats of her drawers, softly and urgently. She moans and lets her hand to wander down his chest, pulling his shirt from his trousers, rubbing him through thin cotton of his pants. His breathing is warm against her ear, his scent in her nose and she cannot imagine loving anyone more than she loves him right now, in this moment, nor wanting him so much. She yanks down his trousers, his pants, frees him and she pulls up her leg. He takes her, pushing her spine against the wall. He feels so good completing her. She wants him to pound against her, to leave marks to remember him by - a week worth of bruises and his thumb prints on her hips.

She doesn't want him to leave but she knows he must. Sometimes, when it is dark and she is lonely, she worries about him. She wishes to give all that's hers and take all that is his without holding back, without the painful restraint that is their every day. This hurried, almost painful loving is to remember him by and when he returns she hopes she will not have news for him that will ruin them, but she cannot be burdened with holding him back. She wants him to be free and to be whole and their love to be without fear - this one time before he goes.

The Season is a painful, gaping hole in her heart, every year, for weeks on end.

She lives a little the night before it starts.

It's all she has to hang on to.

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**A/N:** I did it! A tiny bit smutty in 300 words!

This is the 15th entry in this collection of drabbles and I want to thank everyone for their support over the past few weeks: it's meant so much to me, you are all amazing. This entry is the last in a while. I am not changing the status to 'complete' yet, but it will be going on_ hiatus_. So please send me your thoughts on this little drabble and I hope to present you with a brand spanking new AU chapter fic after the weekend.

Love you all!


	16. welcome

**A/N:** This drabble follows #15 directly and I am giving you two options. Tell me which one you liked best!

* * *

He always leaves one day before the family to get the house back in order. He never tells them there is nothing for him to do but direct the trunks and cases to their respective bedrooms for the Valet, Lady's Maid and Housemaids to unpack. Elsie Hughes has everything under control.

Including his mind. His every dream and some of his waking thoughts. She has captured his heart years ago. Sending him home early means one extra day with her, celebrating his return.

The tracks soothe his nerves through their rhythm, the wind in the trees on his walk to Downton sing to him. He opens the door to the Servants' Entrance and she is there,

1.

… looking as stunning as always, her hair that bit looser now she only has to command her maids, her dress less severe. She turns and sees him, smiles, checks the hall before breaking into a run. He catches her, kisses her soundly.

"Welcome home." She says, cupping his cheek.

2.

… the dark circles under her eyes give her away before he gets the chance to observe her further. She walks towards him, falls into his arms and he can feel it. The almost undiscernable bulge that wasn't there before.

"I'm sorry…" She whispers, tears hot on his cheek. He doesn't respond, only holds her.


	17. fork in the road

**A/N:** choice 1 and 2 (because I am a nice person - pick and choose wisely, from now on you'll be getting only one!)

* * *

1\. They sit together, the wine warming them, their conversation sparkling, unhindered by either's sense of propriety. The junior servants have all gone up, Mrs Patmore retired early, complaining of a headache. He tells her about the Season, the balls that were attended and the 'at homes' that were held.

He doesn't say he has missed her and she doesn't return the sentiment. They know. It's there in the kiss on the sly in the courtyard and it's here in the room now, hovering between them, neither of them wanting to grasp it, make it 'real'.

They are perfect this way.

* * *

2\. They sit together, going over their shared savings, the rent they'd be able to afford. A newspaper lays open at the 'wanted' section. They have circled positions that may be suitable for him. They are worried. He has experience as a Butler, is arguably one of the best in the land, but that will not do them much good now. Perhaps in London they hire married staff, but not anywhere near here.

They have to decide if they want to remain in Yorkshire, if they'll go to Scotland or elsewhere. She keeps telling him she is sorry, he keeps telling her it's not her fault and they sit in quiet misery while he drinks his wine and she sips her tea.

Wine no longer agrees with her.

* * *

**A/N2: **RESULTS CH 17 BASED ON 16 REVIEWS

1\. (happy) 4

2\. (angsty) 8

3\. (undecided) 4


	18. what to do

**A/N:** Here are the results (based on 20 reviews - I am rather overwhelmed and blushing fiercely)!

choice 1 (happy) : 6

choice 2 (angst) : 6

undecided: 3

angst + happy ending : 4

undec + happy ending : 1

So I am afraid it's going to be angst (but if you've been following me for a bit, I think you know it won't be that bad. Probably.) but happy endings are very much wanted. Well. We'll see what I can do. Chapters will probably flesh out as we make our ways to/through the plot.

Please don't forget to make your choice and put them in your review!

* * *

1\. Days go by. The family has returned to their usual routines of receiving visitors and visiting, of checking home farm and taking tea. Elsie goes about her work, trains her maids, tries to single out a girl who could take over if she is forced to leave. When. When she is forced to leave, not if. Charles had written a dozen cover letters. A family in Manchester is looking for a butler and doesn't object if he is married.

He has not asked her yet and she isn't sure he will. She'll wear a ring anyway and she'll go about keeping house, making the most of his earnings and their savings. She'll get used to being called Mrs Carson and she'll bring this child into the world. This child who came through their carelessness, their foolishness. She places her hands on her bump, hidden by her corset.

* * *

2\. A week passes, then two. They speak about leaving Downton, their hearts heavy. They don't want to leave, Downton is their home. They discuss perhaps telling Lord Grantham of their predicament instead of Charles resigning and asking for a reference, a good character. He'd leave and Elsie would simply join him. She has a note already written to place on her desk and a list of tasks and duties. She has made rosters for the whole month.

They've slept in the same bed since he's come home, his presence a constant comfort. She is worried for him more than for herself. She will gain something she never thought she'd have, but he will lose everything he has ever worked for. Their goodbye before the Season demolishing his life's work.


	19. whispers

**A/N:** Results from the previous chapter:

option #1 (very angsty) : 3 / option #2 (a bit angsty) : 6 / undecided + happy : 2

Don't forget to **vote** at the end, you have 3 choices this time!

* * *

_previously_: A week passes, then two. They speak about leaving Downton, their hearts heavy. They don't want to leave, Downton is their home. They discuss perhaps telling Lord Grantham of their predicament instead of Charles resigning and asking for a reference, a good character. He'd leave and Elsie would simply join him. She has a note already written to place on her desk and a list of tasks and duties. She has made rosters for the whole month.

They've slept in the same bed since he's come home, his presence a constant comfort. She is worried for him more than for herself. She will gain something she never thought she'd have, but he will lose everything he has ever worked for. Their goodbye before the Season demolishing his life's work.

* * *

1\. She puts her hand on her belly. She daren't tell him she has felt the baby move for a while now, that they'll need to act soon and quickly. She won't be able to pull her corset tight enough to hide their little surprise. The night covers them, her head is cradled in the crook of Charles' shoulder and she thinks how he had gone to see Lord Grantham and how no decision had been made. Neither of them is out on their ear. Just yet. Perhaps tomorrow they'll be computing their wages as they are owed to them, receiving references and packing their things. She sighs, rubs her thumb over the taut bulge under her navel.

"It's not your fault…" She whispers.

* * *

2\. She is waiting for Charles in her parlour. It's ten thirty and he has been with Lord Grantham for half an hour. She doesn't know if that bodes well or not and her nerves are making her hands shake. Ink smudges the page she is working on and she blots it quickly, trying to diminish the damage done. She leans back in her chair. She is tired. She can't have been sleeping more than three or four hours for the past few weeks and it's catching up with her. Her maids and his footmen are starting to tattle. She won't be able to hide her problem much longer.

"It's all my fault…" She whispers.

* * *

3\. She walks towards him, her steps echoing against the walls. "You'll have to talk to him today, Charles. It really cannot wait any longer." He looks at her, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark. "We won't be able to hide this much longer, none of it." She urges. He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrow.

"You won't be able to hide it much longer, you mean." He says and a coldness grips her heart. "All in all it's only your word that I have, there is no proof at all. Could have been any Tom, Dick, or Harry who struck your fancy."

She bites her lip. "You know it was you." She tries to say it as calmly as she can.

"So you said and perhaps you are right, but his Lordship doesn't know, does he?"

"Would you do that to me?" She whispers.


	20. what to do, where to go

**A/N:** Results are in! Option #3 was dead out (though 3 people did vote for it!). There was an overwhelming amount of votes for #1 'It's not your fault' (14 ). #2 'It's all my fault' received 6 votes. Then there were 6 votes for "Anything but #3!"/votes withheld.

Results are based upon 28 reviews and one text.

* * *

_previously:_ She puts her hand on her belly. She daren't tell him she has felt the baby move for a while now, that they'll need to act soon and quickly. She won't be able to pull her corset tight enough to hide their little surprise. The night covers them, her head is cradled in the crook of Charles' shoulder and she thinks how he had gone to see Lord Grantham and how no decision had been made. Neither of them is out on their ear. Just yet. Perhaps tomorrow they'll be computing their wages as they are owed to them, receiving references and packing their things. She sighs, rubs her thumb over the taut bulge under her navel.

"It's not your fault…" She whispers.

* * *

1\. "He wants us to marry as soon as possible." He says, his voice is remarkably calm.

"But we're allowed to stay?"

"If we marry on the sly, he says we can pretend we've been a couple for a long time and that our baby is finally on the way, after many years of waiting."

She wonders if she can ever look Lord Grantham in the eye again. His wife is American, less rigid, less hemmed in by the rules and expectations of the British aristocracy. She might even congratulate her on the arrival of this unexpected child. This lie his Lordship expects them to perpetuate is easy to keep up. She's been seeing Charles off to the Season for many a year now, They've drunk a small lake worth of Burgundy. She knows his mother's maiden name, he knows about the cat she had as a child, rescued one rainy night. Her heart is beating violently over his referring to the baby as _theirs_, has trouble tearing herself away from looking to the future.

"And you?" She finally asks, referring to Lord Grantham's wish.

"It's not how you deserve to be asked." He replies. "But I love you and you love me and it's the right thing to do."

* * *

2\. He shakes his head. "He's writing me a character and we have until the end of the week to pack and find a new place."

He heart falls. "I'll go." She offers, meaning it in the moment.

He smiles a crooked smile, his eyes not on her but on the floor. "That wouldn't be right." He says.

"What will we do?" She wonders out loud.

"I'll marry you and we'll take that job in Manchester." He offers and she nods. She knows he'll hate it. That he will hate anywhere that isn't Downton. She has trouble picturing him in a small dining room in a much smaller house on the outskirts of the city.

But she says: "Alright."

He takes her hand. "We'll make it work somehow." He sighs and envelops her in his warm embrace, the reason why they have to leave pressed against him and she hates herself for allowing it to happen, for this ultimatum that is so far beneath his dignity. And hers.

* * *

3\. "Well…" He starts and sits down on the chair across from her. "He's letting me stay on."

Elsie pours out tea, focusing on anything but his face. "I've told him I want to marry you and he's agreed it's for the best if we do."

She sips, the tea hot and bitter against her tongue, their child moving below her corset.

"He is letting us rent a cottage, but he is expecting me to stay the night with every dinner and houseparty."

"And this?" She asks, her hand not quite touching her dress, there where it is getting too tight.

"He doesn't want you in the house. He needs us packed by the end of the week, giving you enough time to transfer everything to a new Housekeeper."

"I see." She has given her life to Downton and this is how she is being repaid for years of loyal service, for running the house like a well-oiled machine. She leans back against the backrest of her seat. At least she'll be having another purpose in her life, she thinks. "And you?" She asks.

"I'm sure nothing much will change, until the Dowager Countess finds out why you are living in a cottage on the estate and not working in some other grand house, poached by some Viscount or other."

"Do you think they'll dismiss you then?" She immediately worries.

"No." He shrugs. "It's different for a man."


	21. the day before

**A/N:** Results are in! option #1: 16, option #2: 1, option #3: 4, undecided/abstained: 2, based on 23 reviews.

You lot really are fond of Downton, aren't you? It's okay, I am too. It's Charles and Elsie's home, isn't it. I did fancy option #3 myself, I could see Elsie trying to give being a housewife a go ;) But who knows what will happen?  
Don't forget to vote at the end, I really appreciate all your votes and I try getting back to everyone.

* * *

_previously_: "He wants us to marry as soon as possible." He says, his voice remarkably calm.

"But we're allowed to stay?"

"If we marry on the sly, he says we can pretend we've been a couple for a long time and that our baby is finally on the way, after many years of waiting."

She wonders if she can ever look Lord Grantham in the eye again. His wife is American, less rigid, less hemmed in by the rules and expectations of the British aristocracy. She might even congratulate her on the arrival of this unexpected child. This lie his Lordship expects them to perpetuate is easy to keep up. She's been seeing Charles off to the Season for many a year now, They've drunk a small lake worth of Burgundy. She knows his mother's maiden name, he knows about the cat she had as a child, rescued one rainy night. Her heart is beating violently over his referring to the baby as theirs.

"And you?" She asks, referring to Lord Grantham's wish.

"It's not how you deserve to be asked." He replies. "But I love you and you love me and it's the right thing to do."

* * *

1\. "We could elope." He fantasised out loud in his pantry, late one night when her tea has gone cold and her eyes are tired from mending his socks. Her corset is digging into her painfully. All she wants is to go up, undress, wash and sleep.

"Elope?" She asks.

"Yes. We could just pack up and leave. Maybe go to America."

She knows he can't be serious. She has never known a man more English than Charles Carson, a man less willing to change. A man less suitable for adventure.

"What would you like to do in America?" She asks with a smile, she puts her mending away, drinks her stewed tea with a grimace.

"Maybe I could farm." He says and Elsie shakes her head.

"I didn't go into service to become a farmer's wife, Charles."

"It wouldn't be like that. We could breed horses. I know about horses."

"We'd be working ourselves to death, always worried where our next penny would come from."

"Cent." He quips.

They are quiet, the idea rushing around their minds, not altogether unappealing.

* * *

2\. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" He asks, eyeing her with curiosity.

"I should think so." She is putting her mending away. She is tired, wants to go to bed, take off her corset that is permanently laced too tightly.

"Good… good…" He responds rather absentmindedly as he drinks the last of his glass of wine.

"You sound worried." She bends over to close her basket, unable to breathe for a moment, but happy she doesn't have to look at him.

"Not worried. A bit nervous perhaps." She can hear the smile in his voice. "I never thought I'd marry, you know."

"Me neither." She says honestly, seriously. "If you don't want to…" She starts, the words not forming in her usual steady tone.

"I should have married you the day I came home from the Season." He says.

"What a mess we've made of things…" Elsie cannot help the tears that start falling from her eyes.

* * *

3\. "We're getting married in the morning…" He whispers in her ear as he hovers over her, leaning on his elbows, her breasts pressed against his chest, her belly against his. She had raced upstairs after the last of the junior servants had retired and Charles had taken care of his rounds in a flash. He had been just in time to watch her unlace her corset.

He had proceeded to seduce her, the way he sometimes would when the house was free of guests and his mind clear. He had run his fingers up her naked arm, kissed her shoulder after lifting the strap of her shift. He had manoeuvred her towards the bed and proceeded to make love to her, slowly, softly and now he has said those words and a tear wells up in her eye.

"I'm sorry he is making you do this…" She refers to Lord Grantham, a young man of little experience of how the real world works.

"Don't be sorry, my love." He whispers, rocking the pair of them leisurely. "We should have done it long ago. Long before…" He captures her lips and she kisses him back, her arms wrapping around him, holding him close. Not for the first time she wonders how this man who loves her has been her husband for a very long time indeed. Tomorrow will only formalise it.

She arches under him, quietly contented.


	22. do or don't

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for responding and voting! To clear something up: if someone says 'one or two please!' or any variation on that, I call it an undecided vote.

Results for chapter 21: option 1: 3 votes, option 2: 5 votes, option 3: 12 votes, undecided: 2 votes

* * *

_previously_: "We're getting married in the morning…" He whispers in her ear as he hovers over her, leaning on his elbows, her breasts pressed against his chest, her belly against his. She had raced upstairs after the last of the junior servants had retired and Charles had taken care of his rounds in a flash. He had been just in time to watch her unlace her corset.

He had proceeded to seduce her, the way he sometimes would when the house was free of guests and his mind clear. He had run his fingers up her naked arm, kissed her shoulder after lifting the strap of her shift. He had manoeuvred her towards the bed and proceeded to make love to her, slowly, softly and now he has said those words and a tear wells up in her eye.

"I'm sorry he is making you do this…" She refers to Lord Grantham, a young man of little experience of how the real world works.

"Don't be sorry, my love." He whispers, rocking the pair of them leisurely. "We should have done it long ago. Long before…" He captures her lips and she kisses him back, her arms wrapping around him, holding him close. Not for the first time she wonders how this man who loves her has been her husband for a very long time indeed. Tomorrow will only formalise it.

She arches under him, quietly contented.

* * *

1\. The Registrar looks at them knowingly, a smirk unhidden, his words tumbling out like a waterfall. There is no time for a ring, not even a kiss is permitted. Afterwards they take tea in a small establishment and look at each other. A small smile graces Elsie's lips. He knows the wedding band he has bought for her (engraved 'forever yours, C' - no date) is hiding under the front of her dress, pressed against her skin. He fastened the golden chain behind her neck in the morning. Another piece of the puzzle that is their lie. She can pull it out to show the staff this afternoon, when questions might be asked.

He has been practicing what he'll say for days now. He is one of the youngest butlers in Britain and he knows his predecessor's book* by heart, but there's been no precedent. There's no example he can follow, there are no rules he knows of.

He'll just have to come out and say that his wife has conceived a child by him and hope their cover story stands him in good stead.

* * *

2\. They stand in the chapel and he can feel Elsie shiver beside him. She is pale, her mouth a thin line. This morning they had woken in separate rooms for the first time in weeks and he had not slept well. He kept tossing and turning, the gravity of his situation heavy on his mind.

She is wearing her Sunday best, a tad too tight around her stomach and chest. Her hair is glossy in the dim light that filters through the stained glass windows. The vicar is taking his time, the church is empty. He can smell damp and paper, remembers all those Sundays he has sat in a pew, praying solemnly. The past few weeks he had been praying for a solution for their sudden problem. Then for a way to remain at Downton. Mostly he has been praying that the love Elsie feels for him will remain steady. He has been wondering why he had not asked her to marry him immediately the day she told him she was with child.

Finally the rector shuffles towards them and starts the ceremony without paying much attention to the people he is joining in matrimony right in front of him.

* * *

3\. They sit in the waiting room before being called in to sign the papers that will legally wed them. It's not what she deserves, it's not what he thinks is right. Lawfully wedded wife is not enough, but there is no way about it now. He is a dolt. He should have asked her to marry him years ago. Had they married then, the child that will join them sooner rather than later would have been created within the bounds and sanctity of marriage.

He has loved her long enough, he has simply always been too afraid, too proud perhaps of his position. Now he sits here, her hand in his, her face pale, her dress a tad too tight, giving the game away and he knows they could have been happy anywhere, doing anything, if only they would have been together. They could have run a shop between them, could have taken over her father's farm. He leans against the wall behind him, the bench hard on his behind.

"You know… we can still run away…" She whispers and he cocks his head.

* * *

* the Butler's Book is an account of all the tricks, tips, advice and rules Butlers keep - a record of their life and work. They are handed down from Butler to Butler and added to.


	23. wed

**A/N:** Thank you all for voting! I am so pleased to hear you are still enjoying this!

Results for chapter 22: option 1: 12 votes, option 2: 0 votes, option 3: 8 votes and 1 undecided.

Don't forget to vote for this chapter too - like you I have NO idea what will happen! I really think it is a little bit exciting. Oh, who am I kidding: I am completely excited!

* * *

_previously:_ The Registrar looks at them knowingly, a smirk unhidden, his words tumbling out like a waterfall. There is no time for a ring, not even a kiss is permitted. Afterwards they take tea in a small establishment and look at each other. A small smile graces Elsie's lips. He knows the wedding band he has bought for her (engraved 'forever yours, C' - no date) is hiding under the front of her dress, pressed against her skin. He fastened the golden chain behind her neck in the morning. Another piece of the puzzle that is their lie. She can pull it out to show the staff this afternoon, when questions might be asked.

He has been practicing what he'll say for days now. He is one of the youngest butlers in Britain and he knows his predecessor's book by heart, but there's been no precedent. There's no example he can follow, there are no rules he knows of.

He'll just have to come out and say that his wife has conceived a child by him and hope their cover story stands him in good stead.

* * *

1\. "I thought I'd inform his Lordship." He says just outside the door.

"I think I'll change…" She says, worrying her lip.

"Yes, I suppose you can't work in your Sunday dress." He smiles softly. Elsie blushes.

"No… No, I suppose not. But I was thinking that maybe…" She swallows hard. She wishes it weren't so hard to just tell him that she is uncomfortable, that she doesn't think it's healthy to be this hemmed in, this confined.

"Maybe what, Elsie?" He is forcing himself to be calm, she can hear it in his voice.

"Perhaps I could wear something… something that isn't so… Erm… Restricting?"

He nods slowly.

She places her hand on her corset, feeling how it's being pushed to its limits. "Everyone will see." She says, suddenly quite frightened of their reactions, afraid her authority will be forever questioned now.

"Yes. They will. You are beautiful, Elsie." He says and he sounds so sincere that tears spring to her eyes. "They will see and I will announce that you are with child and then things will get back to normal."

She grabs his hand and prays he is right.

She prays their lie will hold, that their child will be alright. That she will be. She will have to start looking after herself now, really acknowledge what's happening and she does wonder how they will look after the baby with both their jobs so demanding.

"I don't want to go in..." She says, her voice that of a frightened girl, not the secure woman she normally is.

* * *

2\. She finishes her cup of tea and leans back in her chair. She wishes there was a way she could at least breathe. She is losing weight, which cannot be good for the baby. She remembers her mother telling her sister to eat for two when she was carrying her first. Elsie's not told her mother she's with child, hasn't wanted to worry her or shamer her, but she could write now. She can feel the chain around her neck, her child under her corset and she looks out the window, straight into a shop window.

'_Manager wanted, enquire within'_

"Charles?" She asks and she points at the sign.

They stare at it in silence for a while until a waitress comes to collect their empty cups.

"Do you…" She asks, thinking how different it would be: a husband who goes into work at eight and comes home at six, to have dinner together without the worry of being interrupted for someone else's needs. To have a home of their own, a place for their child to grow up.

Elsie daydreams away, thinking how she would send out the washing, but would take care of all the rest herself. How she would ask Beryl Patmore to teach her some simple things to cook - all she knows how to make is stew, the staple of her farmgirl childhood.

Maybe there would be enough money to afford having another child, to keep this little one company. Perhaps, with luck and hard work they can say goodbye to their lives in service and be their own masters.

The idea appeals to her very much indeed.

* * *

3\. "You know..." She starts as they walk from town towards the house. "Perhaps we could rent a cottage from his Lordship. One of the nearby ones and you could come home to me each night."

She's been thinking about it a lot. She worries about how they'll look after the baby once he or she has been born. They have demanding jobs, both of them.

"I could make it a home for us and I still have have time to instruct a new Housekeeper before the baby comes." She has pulled out the chain from under the front of her dress and fiddles with the ring. Her ring. She wonders if she'll be able to wear it from now on. It would certainly make her proud.

She had always thought she was different, that she would go into service and make something of herself and she had. She had reached an enviable position in a noble household. The end of the line. She had fallen in love with a man who had been damaged and who held on tight to rules and duty. She doesn't know if he will cope well with how a baby will change their lives.

The Season was hard on them, always, and she gave herself before he left with fearless abandon, wishing to have him on her skin for a long time, his scent on her pillow, his mark on her thigh. She had gotten more than she had asked for and it had been their own fault, but it could be a chance, a way to make something of her life again. She awaits his answer, walking beside him silently.


	24. take a deep breath

**A/N:** Hey everybody! Thanks for voting! You all make me so superhappy with your participation, I cannot say how much I appreciate it. Someone has asked for a bit of a timeline and I have hidden it in one of the choices, I hope it's clear enough.

Now for the results: choice #1: 14 votes, choice #2: 3 votes, choice #3: 1 vote, undecided: 3 votes, based on 21 votes. Don't forget to vote again!

* * *

1\. "It will be fine." He says and pulls her into a gentle embrace. "I'll come up with you, we'll both change. We'll need to discuss living arrangements, who we can trust to keep an eye on our charges when we are no longer in our rooms in the corridor."

He is all practicality and it soothes her to know he is not flustered, that the panic she feels rising in her chest is not shared by him. She follows him inside, up the narrow staircase to the attics and into his room. The corridor is deserted, everyone is hard at work, as they are supposed to be.

"Allow me..." He murmurs against her neck as he wraps his arms around her from behind. His door is now closed, they stand against it and she nods in agreement.

He helps her with her coat, then starts unhooking the hooks and eyes at the back of her dress, pushes the bodice down her arms, lets it fall beneath her waist. He carefully unties the laces of her corset, giving her time to adjust to the sudden influx of breath, the air expanding her lungs, her anxiety diminishing.

Her corset lies on the floor, his hand comes to rest first on her belly, the bump firm and taut. He runs his hand over the cotton of her slip and then cups her breast, soft and enlarged. He kisses her neck again, nips at the skin and whispers in her ear:

"I love you. You are beautiful, Elsie Carson..."

* * *

2\. "You'll be fine." He says, taking her hand, bringing it up to his lips. "We're going to be alright. We'll keep to our story. We've been married since you came here - there's only Mrs Patmore to contest it..."

She gives him a watery smile while he continues.

"And today we've been to take you to a doctor. Because you are..." He leans in and whispers the last of his sentence in her ear, making her blush fiercely.

She is indeed carrying his child and their child will come into the world to married parents and it's all alright in the eyes of God and men.

She just isn't so sure of the eyes of women when she follows him into the dark hall and they make their way upstairs: he to speak with Lord Grantham, she to change.

"I'll come for you." He promises. She thanks him, relieved she won't have to face the crowd on her own when she presents them their little surprise.

* * *

3\. She pulls herself together when he puts his arm around her shoulder and kisses her cheek.

"No time like the present." She hears her own accent thicken in her nervousness. "Will I wait for you or shall I just go down after I've changed?"

She tries to remind herself their announcement has been six months in the making, from Charles' departure to London in

April all through a long Season. Her surprise for him when he finally returned in August and there was nothing to be done about the growing child invading her body. Now it's October, their baby will come in the new year.

Giving them a new start.

"Please wait for me. Allow me a moment with you after I've told Lord Grantham everything has been taken care of." He leans in and kisses her softly. "Then we can tell them together."


	25. nestled between her breasts

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for voting! Just a little note to say that it isn't always easy coming up with three choices every day and I am sorry that yesterday's felt a bit same-ish. I hope today will be better. And if not, at least it was two thirds smut. Don't forget to vote and don't forget I think you are all awesome.

Results for chapter 24, based on 20 votes:

#1: 14 votes, #2: 4 votes, #3: 2 votes

* * *

_Previously: _It will be fine." He says and pulls her into a gentle embrace. "I'll come up with you, we'll both change. We'll need to discuss living arrangements, who we can trust to keep an eye on our charges when we are no longer in our rooms in the corridor."

He is all practicality and it soothes her to know he is not flustered, that the panic she feels rising in her chest is not shared by him. She follows him inside, up the narrow staircase to the attics and into his room. The corridor is deserted, everyone is hard at work, as they are supposed to be.

"Allow me..." He murmurs against her neck as he wraps his arms around her from behind. His door is now closed, they stand against it and she nods in agreement.

He helps her with her coat, then starts unhooking the hooks and eyes at the back of her dress, pushes the bodice down her arms, lets it fall beneath her waist. He carefully unties the laces of her corset, giving her time to adjust to the sudden influx of breath, the air expanding her lungs, her anxiety diminishing.

Her corset lies on the floor, his hand comes to rest first on her belly, the bump firm and taut. He runs his hand over the cotton of her slip and then cups her breast, soft and enlarged. He kisses her neck again, nips at the skin and whispers in her ear:

"I love you. You are beautiful, Elsie Carson..."

* * *

1\. She leans back against him, one eye on the clock. They have time, not much, but enough to indulge.

She presses herself back against him, his desire for her evident as it lays hard against the supple flesh of her bottom. His fingers gather the fabric of her slip until it's bunched in his hands and he lifts it over her bum, losing contact for a mere moment. Then he reveals her belly and breasts and she sees herself in the small mirror affixed to the wall, where she takes care of her careful coiffe each morning.

He rids himself of his shirt, lowers his trousers, his shorts. He toes off his shoes, manages to be quite naked in seconds and he leads her towards to bed and he lays her down gently.

He kisses her ankle, her calf, his fingertips featherlight next to his lips and she sighs in happy anticipation. He tickles the back of her knee, strokes the inside of her thigh and lays down beside her and claims her mouth tenderly. She turns to him, her arms sliding up his chest, one slipping around his neck. She toys with the soft curls in the nape of his neck and hums contentedly into their kiss.

He alights a fire in her, one she has never been able to deny, but it feels acute somehow: the ring still on its chain around her neck, nestled between her breasts, their child safe within her and between them. She loves him. She loves him. She loves him and she pushes herself against him again, urging him to touch her.

His hand is at her waist, then her hipbone - or where she knows it hides these days - and then he cups her mound. She moans when he rubs the tiny nub at the forefront of her folds, arches into his touch and he smiles when she opens her eyes and looks at him.

His smile is filled with happiness and love and Elsie reaches up, cups his cheek.

"We're going to be just fine." She whispers before clambering up with some difficulty due to her altered center of gravity and straddles him.

* * *

2\. She turns in his arms and plunders his mouth with a starving hunger, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing his jacket from his shoulders, pushing and pulling him until he catches on this time it's not about tenderness but that it's a howling need, a fire that needs to extinguished.

Soon they are in just the barest of necessities: she in her shift, he in his shorts and she takes his hand, pulls him to the bed where she makes him lay down and she strokes his shins, his knees, his thighs and his erection through the cotton of his pants. He is looking flushed but not unhappy. Normally it's he who takes the lead, but maybe because they are married now he enjoys giving her the control? She doesn't think about it much as she yanks his shorts down and settles herself above him, lowers herself and hisses with the familiar feeling of his stretching her, filling her, making her more whole in some way.

She rocks back and forth, her hair coming undone and she pulls her shift over her head, revealing herself to him. She is all curves and softness now. Her breasts are heavy and swing with her movements, her belly is still high, but very obvious as she leans back, supporting herself on her hands that find purpose on his thighs. Her wedding ring on its chain around her neck bobs up and down against the ivory skin of her chest.

He has grabbed her hips, his fingers digging in her soft flesh, their rhythm causing her narrow bed to groan in protest and neither of them has noticed the cook until it's too late and a heavy Yorkshire accent sounds:

"Oh my God, Elsie Hughes!"

* * *

3\. "I love you, too." She takes his hand from her breast and wraps it around her for just a moment, relishing this moment of shared intimacy. She looks at the clock, they have little time before they are expected back and she still hasn't a plan for announcing her pregnancy.

She lays her hand over his as it's on her bump and she knows that though things may not be ideal, at least her child is loved, will be looked after proper. She'll hold it close soon, feed it, clothe it, sing to it. Their child will make them a family, something she had never thought she wanted until this happened.

"What are you going to say?" She asks, breaking away from him, the loss of his touch felt vividly. She opens the wardrobe and pulls out the dress she has been working on for weeks. It's as black as the ones she's always worn, it's of the same fabric, she has stitched all the hems as evenly, but there is room for her belly in this one. Room to expand.

She pulls a pair of clean drawers out and puts them on, feeling Charles' eyes upon her at all times an slips the dress over her head. She hooks it closed and studies herself in the mirror.

"Erm… I… I was just…" He shakes his head before managing to pull himself together. "I was going to say that the good Lord had finally blessed us…"

She shakes her head. "You think it's wise to use the Lord's name in vain like that?"

She wonders if they've not been punished enough, there's no need to provoke more. Or worse.

"What would you have me say?" He asks, his eyes fixed upon her chest.

"Simply that you've felt it's time to announce your wife is with child and that allowances will have to be made."

He nods.

"We'll be fine." She assures him, feeling safe and secure in her new dress, her ring nestled between her breasts, her marriage a testament of her respectability.


	26. soundless knocking

**A/N:** Results are in: option #1: 4 votes, option #2: 8 votes, option #3: 2 votes, undecided: 4 votes. Based on 17 votes.

Welcome to insanely soppy OOC-land! Why did I give you guys option 2? *shakes head and closes eyes*

Please don't forget to vote! I really love to hear from you, signed in or as a guest!

* * *

_previously: _She turns in his arms and plunders his mouth with a starving hunger, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing his jacket from his shoulders, pushing and pulling him until he catches on this time it's not about tenderness but that it's a howling need, a fire that needs to extinguished.

Soon they are in just the barest of necessities: she in her shift, he in his shorts and she takes his hand, pulls him to the bed where she makes him lay down and she strokes his shins, his knees, his thighs and his erection through the cotton of his pants. He is looking flushed but not unhappy. Normally it's he who takes the lead, but maybe because they are married now he enjoys giving her the control? She doesn't think about it much as she yanks his shorts down and settles herself above him, lowers herself and hisses with the familiar feeling of his stretching her, filling her, making her more whole in some way.

She rocks back and forth, her hair coming undone and she pulls her shift over her head, revealing herself to him. She is all curves and softness now. Her breasts are heavy and swing with her movements, her belly is still high, but very obvious as she leans back, supporting herself on her hands that find purpose on his thighs. Her wedding ring on its chain around her neck bobs up and down against the ivory skin of her chest.

He has grabbed her hips, his fingers digging in her soft flesh, their rhythm causing her narrow bed to groan in protest and neither of them has noticed the cook until it's too late and a heavy Yorkshire accent sounds:

"Oh my God, Elsie Hughes!"

* * *

1\. Elsie manages to stifle her scream and scrambles to pull up the sheet, only partially covering herself. Her husband slips from her, trying to pull her to him, but she resists.

"Can't you knock, Beryl Patmore?" She shouts at the young cook.

"I did knock! You were so wrapped up in what you were doing you didn't hear!" Beryl shouts back. Beryl is still on the threshold of Elsie's room and Elsie is still breathless from her passionate exertions and Charles is trying to make himself invisible.

"What is going on, Elsie?" Beryl asks. They are friends, when they are not fighting about the storecupboard key. They are the same age, they both have senior positions in a noble household. They are both well-respected.

Or at least they both were. Elsie isn't so sure about herself at this point, the sheet covering only part of her physique.

"What do you _think_ is going on?" She responds wearily. "What does it look like?" She shakes her head slowly, shrugs defeatedly, knowing full well the white sheet accentuates the softness of her altering body.

"Oh heavens…" Beryl mutters. "You're…"

Elsie nods. "I am." For the first time she feels quite proud that she is carrying Charles' child. It feels good to admit it.

"What will His Lordship say?" Beryl asks, looking worried.

"He knows. We've told him a while ago."

"And he is letting you stay on?" She looks flabbergasted and Elsie cannot help but chuckle.

"There's nothing improper about it." She explains, pulling the ring from under the sheet.

"Oh… I never knew…" Beryl needs a moment, Elsie can see her friend process everything that's going on in this small attic room.

"We're telling everybody today. I've a new dress. I cannot hide it anymore." She says, her hand gently stroking her belly through the cotton of the bedsheet.

"I should say not!" Beryl says with her usual aplomb.

Elsie laughs out loud now and steps towards the cook. "You won't say anything, will you?" She asks.

"Of course not, lass. I'll not steal your thunder. Though Lady Grantham might, because I am only up here to call you and change my apron. We have unexpected guests for dinner tonight and they are staying too."

"Alright. We'll be down in a minute." She presses her lips together in mild amusement before adding:

"And knock next time, will you? A bit louder."

They both laugh now, Charles forgotten as he still hides himself partially under the blankets on Elsie's bed.

"Let me get dressed. And Beryl?"

"Yes?"

"Will you please stand by me when we tell them?" Nerves suddenly flood her again, making her feel queasy.

"Of course I will, lass."

* * *

2\. Beryl doesn't want to look, but her eyes are transfixed on the couple occupying the narrow bed. The correct, inflexible Butler and the prim and proper Housekeeper, in flagrante delicto. And by the look of Elsie Hughes' figure, not for the first time.

"Don't you know how to knock, Beryl Patmore?" Charles Carson thunders as he covers up Elsie with a crumpled sheet.

"I did knock, Mr Carson. You were just too… occupied? Shall we say?" She is smirking now, she can't help it.

"You should wait until you hear someone answer!" He bellows and Beryl lets out a chuckle.

"Oh, I heard something alright."

Then she sees Elsie holding on to the sheet, pulling it tighter and tighter around her, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, lass, don't cry. It's not that bad…" She says, stepping closer to the bed. Charles Carson puts his arm around Elsie protectively, wipes away her tears with the corner of the sheet and Beryl clearly sees the ring that lays against Elsie's freckled skin.

It's not hard to put two and two together. Beryl wonders how long the pair has been married, but it doesn't matter, not much. It explains everything. The quiet talks over sherry in his pantry late at night, the way he butters her toast, she pours his tea. How he calms down simply because she lays her hand on his arm. How he takes her arm on the way to church each Sunday.

Elsie Hughes' melancholia every year when the Season comes along and her obvious happiness when it's over.

Elsie still sobs and Beryl sighs. "You get dressed Mr Carson." She orders him about and averts her eyes as he scrambles out of the bed, locates his clothes and quickly puts them on. "You go and change. Lady Grantham is expecting sudden guests and they are staying the night too. She wants to see you."

He takes a look at Elsie - his wife, Beryl supposes - who nods. He leaves without another word and Beryl turns to Elsie.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks with her usual frankness.

"We were going to tell everyone this afternoon." Elsie doesn't hiccup. Her voice is reasonably calm.

"What were you going to tell? About Mr Carson being your husband? Or about…" She points at Elsie's rounded belly.

The Housekeeper puts her hand on her bump, softly stroking it through the cotton of the sheet.

"About the baby…" She looks up and Beryl is almost more shocked about the joyful glow suddenly enveloping Elsie than about finding her friend (they are friends, really they are - who else than with a solid friend can you fight with about something as aggravating as a storecupboard?) naked on top of the Butler.

Beryl had never given the Butler a second thought, but he is a fine specimen of the male gender indeed.

"The baby…" She repeats and cannot help tearing up.

"Will you stay in the room when we tell them?" Elsie asks, her voice small.

"Elsie Hughes… I hate to break it to you, but I'm afraid your little… well… whatever you want to call it, will announce itself."

And with that remark, Elsie and Beryl both laugh.

* * *

3\. He has had his run-ins with the situation that presented itself, but never as the walked-in-on party. He had seen Lady Grantham fast asleep next to his Lordship and during his time on the stage he always had to chase some girl out of Charlie's room.

But this is different. He is on the receiving end of an 'Oh my God' and he reacts on instinct, covering up his wife and trying to locate his shorts.

"Have you never heard of knocking?" He bellows only to find Beryl smirking at the pair of them. Beside him, Elsie is shaking and he isn't certain if it's because she is horrified or because she's laughing.

"The way you were going I'm not surprised you didn't hear me knock, Mr Carson."

"Beryl!" It's Elsie now who speaks up. She is pulling the sheet around her, carefully scrambling from the bed. She isn't very tall, but standing firm. The sheet is pulled tight around her, accentuating her belly and breasts and she is so gorgeous to him, he has to swallow hard to push away his emotions as they overwhelm him.

"You should have waited, you know that." Elsie stays reasonable and he admires her for it.

"You are not the one who should lecture me about waiting." Beryl steps closer, indicating Elsie's bump.

"We are married, there is nothing improper!" Elsie hisses and he knows he could step in to defend her honour, but there's no need. Elsie takes care of herself.

And the little one who comes along.

"You are married? How long have you been married?" Beryl's accent is strong, her excitement fills the room like another person.

"It's been ages now. Beryl, please… I am not wearing any clothes." Elsie deflects and he bites his lip in order not to laugh.

"Why Charles Carson, you are a dark horse." Beryl says and she puts her arms around Elsie, cuddling her softly. "And you…" She lets go and steps away. "Look at you…"

A shy smile curls Elsie's lips. "Yes. Look at me." She repeats.

Charles watches the interaction whilst swiftly getting dressed. He is missing a sock, but it's of no consequence.

"Yes…" He joins the two women. "Finally." He kisses Elsie's cheek, standing behind her and she leans against him for a moment. The white lie is like a seed and it's best planted in receptive ground. Having Beryl in their corner, perpetuating their story is the best course of action in his opinion and Elsie doesn't seem to mind.

Elsie's shoulder is cold.

"Let Elsie get dressed, Beryl. We'll be coming down shortly. After all, we have an announcement to make."

"Yes. You do." Beryl agrees. "But first Lady Grantham wants to see you about the guests."

"What guests?"

"The unexpected ones who will be staying for dinner and also will be spending the night and the reason why I tried finding Mrs Hughes."

"You should have said!" He can feel the rush of having a problem to fix and knowing he can fix it. Of being needed. Of being the person who can pull off a last minute dinner in style.

"I would have if you'd…" Beryl starts and Elsie lifts her hand, silencing the both of them.

"Charles, you will change and go to see her Ladyship. Beryl, I am getting dressed and we'll go over what we have in stock in my parlour. And then when it's time for dinner, we'll announce this." She pats her belly lovingly and he sees it then:

She is happy.


	27. telling

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for voting! Results: option #1: 1 vote, #2: 5 votes, #3: 16 votes, undecided: 6 votes. Based on 28 votes.

Thank you everyone, guests and signed in reviewers, readers and others for all your kindness and encouragement. It really means the world to me. Oh, and please don't forget to vote, only two choices this time, but lengthy ones!

* * *

_The previous part was quite long, so please have the last paragraph to refresh your memory:_

"Charles, you will change and go to see her Ladyship. Beryl, I am getting dressed and we'll go over what we have in stock in my parlour. And then when it's time for dinner, we'll announce this." She pats her belly lovingly and he sees it then:

She is happy.

* * *

1\. "Elsie?" Charles peeks around the doorframe. She is going over tonight's menu options with Beryl. With her back to him, you cannot see anything of what they've been trying to hide, but she turns to him and in her new dress it's obvious there is _something going on_ and it fills him with pride.

"We are busy, Mr Carson." She addresses him in clipped tones and he cannot help but snort. She will never mind putting him in his place. Correcting him, guiding him, helping him: she will never hold back and he loves her for it. They are no different now than they were before he went away for the Season, no matter how much circumstances have changed. He knows the ring he gave her is pressed against her skin under her shift and he can see the curve that has made him finally make the decision to marry her (which he should have done years ago - she is 37, he is going on 45 - they are late bloomers, the pair of them). But essentially they are the same people. Headstrong, practical, efficient. Perfectly suited for life in service.

"I'm well aware, _Mrs_ Carson," He is pleased to see her flush a little, he disregards the obvious wink Beryl throws his way. "But her Ladyship would like a word."

"We haven't fixed the menu yet!" She says with a bit more force than needed.

"I don't think she wants to talk about the menu, Elsie." He replies softly.

"Oh." Realisation dawns almost painfully.

"How does she know?"

"I don't think she knows, as such. But I doubt his Lordship kept our marriage from her."

"I see. Alright." She sight. "Excuse me, please, Mrs Patmore." She pushes her chair back and gets up. "No time like the present."

-o0O0o-

She ascends the stairs and enters the Morning Room where she finds Lady Grantham in her favourite spot on the settee in front of the window. She holds an embroidery hoop and a pained expression.

"You sent for me, Milady?" Elsie asks, respectful as always. She likes the American heiress. She always admires those who make the most of what life's dealt them and she knows it can be difficult to be the outsider, to be the one who has to learn all the conventions and rules and not being catered to.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes, please do come in." Cora Crawley looks at her Housekeeper and nods slowly, the pained look chased away immediately, the hoop already forgotten. Elsie's heart is hammering. She fights the urge to put her hand on her belly, wanting to protect her child from what may be coming. She decides to open the conversation, to take the active approach.

"I'm sorry, but we have not yet come to a conclusion on the menu. We have a starter and soup, and of course dessert has been taken care of, but Mrs Patmore is still looking into the main course." She can her burr thicken - it always happens when she is nervous.

Or in bed with her husband.

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll come up with something splendid between the two of you, I have every faith it will all come together beautifully." Lady Grantham puts her hands in her lap. "And when you send a telegram you are coming over in mere hours, allowances are expected to be made. Lady Rosamund knows we are not in London."

"Yes, Milady." Elsie acknowledges. There isn't anything else she can answer.

"No, I've sent for you because the most extraordinary news came to me by means of my husband."

Elsie coughs, she can feel spots appearing in her neck.

"Lord Grantham spoke of your marriage to Mr Carson."

Elsie nods. "Yes, Milady."

"I wonder if there is anything else you'd like to tell me." Lady Grantham gives Elsie's belly a pointed look and cocks her head.

"We're… well, that's to say, Milady, I am…"

"Yes. So I see. I must say you've hidden it admirably. That cannot have been easy."

"It wasn't, Milady."

"Perhaps we should call you Mrs Carson…" Cora Crawley ponders out loud before continuing. "I wish you would have told me. We don't mind married servants, you know. Back home we've always had married couples looking after us."

It's not as much the revelation that Lady Grantham doesn't mind married domestics as much as it is her thinking of Elsie and Charles as 'looking after them', as if they are children in the nursery. Perhaps they are in a way. None of those she serves would be able to make themselves a simple cup of tea, wouldn't know where to start making their own beds.

"Mr Carson thought it best, Milady."

"Men always think they know best… don't they?" Lady Grantham sighs. Then she smiles again. "And when can we expect…"

"In the new year. If I'm correct." Elsie says and it's nice to simply discuss it. Nice to acknowledge it without fear or worry.

"You aren't sure? But you've seen the doctor, haven't you?"

"There's no need for a doctor, Milady." Elsie tries to assure her employer.

"Of course there is. We'll have to look after you a bit now."

Elsie doesn't contradict - she rarely does as it is - and smiles softly.

"I'll send word to the doctor that he'll give you a thorough check-up tomorrow, Mrs Hughes."

"Thank you, Milady."

* * *

2\. Apparently her news travels fast, because it doesn't take an hour before not only Downton Abbey, but the whole village knows that Elsie Hughes is with child. The butcher's boy smirks at her when she opens the door and she stares him down until he cowers under her look.

"Be off with you and if I have more of your cheek, we'll find another supplier. Don't think it's difficult to find someone who can have a rack of lamb delivered."

She watches the boy bike away as fast as he can, afraid for his job, after he's put his ware in the hall where one of the kitchenmaids will pick it up later. He disappears in the distance whilst she worries. Elsie knows that tomorrow letters will come for Lady Grantham, telling her to fire the Housekeeper for reproducing. How dare the woman procreate! Her life is to be in service of The Family, not her own! She hopes things will end alright, Cora Crawley is American and liberal, but she is still governed in part by the Dowager Countess and the old lady will not look upon Elsie's little happenstance with a kind eye.

What if Violet Crawley pushes Cora to let her Housekeeper go? Then what will they do?

She rubs her belly softly. _Och, my bairn… _She thinks to herself. _If our circumstances were different, I'd not worry. If your father and I were married and living in a cottage… I think I would have prayed for you to come…_

Elsie thinks back to the afternoon. Telling the staff had been interesting. Beryl had brought in plates of bread and butter, one of her kitchenmaids putting down a large teapot in the middle of the table and Elsie had come in from her parlour, walked to her place like she did every day and she could hear gasps from her girls, felt their stares and Charles had taken her hand and put it all so plainly.

"I'm very happy to announce that my wife and I will be adding to our happiness in the new year." He had said and she had almost choked on the wave of emotion rolling over her. _Their happiness_… Beryl had smiled, had shaken Charles' hand, quipped like she was prone to doing - something about it not being before time. Careful congratulations were offered until one by one the staff had become used to the idea and they had toasted the news with their cups of tea high in the air.

She is glad her girls were kind, but she worries how she will manage. She already feels the strain on her lower back that comes with climbing the endless stairs and walking the corridors for miles each day. She already doesn't risk going up the stepladder to check the top of the wardrobes for dust. She'll only grow bigger, slower, more clumsy.

And when the baby comes, what will they do then? What if it's on an evening guests are expected? What if things don't go well and she'll be in bed for a more than a day or two? And then with the baby? He or she will require feeding at odd times.

The baby moves under her hand, she can feel him or her solidly against her palm. She smiles.

_What will be will be_, she thinks and takes in and lets out a cleansing breath. If worse comes to worse they'll have their shared savings and skills that are sought after. Charles could manage a shop or an office if need be and she could try her hand at being a housewife. Things may not be so dire at all and perhaps Lady Grantham will stand firm.

What will come, will come.

"We'll be fine." She assures her baby. "We'll all be alright."

"What's that?" She turns around to find her husband standing in the hall behind her.

"Just telling myself I've nothing to worry about."

He walks towards her and takes her in his arms. "I know you are apprehensive." He says and she scoffs. He kisses her softly and she knows it's to silence her.

She leans into him. They've kissed each other in this hall a hundred times before, but never has she done it without the fear of being caught and it's not only liberating, but it's _right_. She is his wife. His wife! A warmth spreads through her and she smiles against his lips.

"What's that?" He asks, tearing himself away.

"Just… I know that you'll look after us."

His hand slides from her lower back to her belly and it's wonderful that he can just feel her bump without the restraints of the steel boning and thick cotton of her corset.

"Come hell or high water." He promises.

"Or Lady Violet?" She asks, making sure.

"Or Lady Violet." He sniggers.


	28. a word

**A/N:** Results: option #1: 9 votes, option #2: 15 votes. Undecided: 1 vote.

so today you'll be getting Lady Violet in all her Dowager glory! (or at least I've tried, even watched the first two episodes of S2 *oh the sacrifices I make…*)

Ideas for how to move forward are ALWAYS welcome and will ALWAYS be considered and as always: DON'T FORGET TO VOTE (4 short options today)!

* * *

_Previously on One Year:_

A warmth spreads through her and she smiles against his lips.

"What's that?" He asks, tearing himself away.

"Just… I know that you'll look after us."

His hand slides from her lower back to her belly and it's wonderful that he can just feel her bump without the restraints of the steel boning and thick cotton of her corset.

"Come hell or high water." He promises.

"Or Lady Violet?" She asks, making sure.

"Or Lady Violet." He sniggers.

* * *

1\. Her mother in law occupies the chair by the fire as if she still owns the place and Cora might not be as formidable, she has decided for herself to stand firm on the subject of Mrs Hughes. Who is actually Mrs Carson. Who is expecting a baby.

"It's not done, Cora. I know things are different in America, but we have standards here. We set an example." There's not a sound from the spoon against the porcelain as Violet Crawley stirs her tea.

"And what example is that if we turn out a perfectly respectable Housekeeper?" Cora asks, finding herself reasonable in her inquiry.

"Come now, Cora. I know you have a soft heart, but it cannot be tolerated. She'll put her child first, you know that. Really, it's not right."

"A mother always puts her child first, there is nothing wrong with that, Mama." She thinks of her baby in the nursery, tended to by a nurse and two nursery maids. Ninety minutes until she is due for a visit.

"I understand you feel this way with Sybil is not three months old, but your Housekeeper is employed to run your household under you. We do not pay her to cuddle her child or sing it lullabies."

"Really, Mama!" Cora is amazed at the cold practicality her mother in law displays without a shimmer of compassion.

"Cora, what will people think? As if the family isn't under enough scrutiny already."

"I am not letting Mrs Hughes go and that's final. I couldn't manage without her. The past five years she's not taken ill for a single day, her days off are spent in the village or here in the grounds and her reputation is beyond reproach. I am not sending her away for doing her duty as a wife."

The Dowager Countess almost chokes on her tea.

"Duty!" She exclaims and falls silent.

Cora picks up her own cup and drinks her tea, satisfied she's not let her mother in law win this game.

* * *

2\. "She'll have to go, Cora, there's nothing for it."

"But…"

"Housekeepers are meant to run the household under the mistress of the house, not to the whims of an infant." The Dowager hardly pauses. "And where do you propose they keep the child? In her parlour? No. It's just not done."

Cora tries to get a word in edgeways, but she is tired, her body still recovering from the difficult labour that brought her Sybil into the world and she just doesn't have the strength.

"It's sad of course, Mrs Hughes has always been outstanding. Practical woman. Efficient. Hard worker and I suppose Carson will go with her, though you never know with men, do you." It's not a question, it's an assessment. "He'll have no trouble finding other employment. He's strong and moral - or at least I thought he was - and Robert will no doubt provide him with glowing references."

"You've spoken to Robert about this?" Cora manages to say, her teacup chinking against the saucer, the tea dancing precariously close to the rim of the cup.

"I will, don't worry. There's no need for you to concern yourself with this." The older Lady Grantham picks up a sandwich from the etagere and takes a bite. She chews and swallows delicately before continuing.

"Really, how can they be so careless. Leaving us in such upheaval. They ought to know better. I'm very disappointed in the pair of them. I thought Mrs Hughes wiser."

"Yes, Mama." Cora says and thinks how at least Mrs Hughes is probably doing her duty to her husband. She'll not be surprised if the Carson baby is a boy. Mrs Hughes was always better in doing the right thing than Cora every could be.

* * *

3\. "Carson, a word."

He swallows and takes a deep breath before following the Dowager Countess into the library. She sits down in Lord Grantham's chair and looks at him imperiously.

"I've heard you've married, Carson." She starts and he can hear the steely edge of her voice.

"Indeed, Milady. Some time now."

"You understand I'm not pleased about this."

"I do, Milady." He says solemnly. He does understand. He doesn't care much, but he knows all there is to know about how things are done.

"I thought you were wiser, Carson. I'm appalled."

"I'm very sorry, Milady." He says evenly. He's not sorry at all. He is happy to have a loving wife to come to at night when all his work is done. He is happy to have Elsie by his side to share his worries, his burdens and his joy. He is happy to have this beautiful woman who wants to be with him and is giving him something he never dreamed of having: a family.

"Hmm. Are you." She has always seen right through him. THey have always respected each other. He has admired her even. She is a strong woman, ruling her house and her family like an Amazon. Strong and fierce and fearless. But he'll not back down. He'll stand by his wife no matter what. He chooses to remain silent until she requires him to actually answer.

"Well. What's done is done, I suppose."

"Yes, Milady."

"Am I to deduce that Mrs Carson is…" She searches for a word. "...well?" He has to smile about the euphemism. 'Well' is good. With that word he has her forgiveness - had he needed it.

"She is indeed, Milady." He answers as pride swells his chest.

* * *

4\. "Mrs Hughes, a word."

Elsie follows the Dowager Countess into the Drawing Room. It's two days since her little talk with Lady Grantham. She has been expecting this to happen. She closes the door behind her and stands before the Dowager who sits in the comfortable chair by the window.

She looks like she belongs there more than Lady Grantham and it saddens Elsie. Cora Crawley is doing all she can to become accustomed to the way things are done at Downton. She has given birth to three girls - a blessing for a common farm girl like Elsie, but disaster for an heiress only brought into the family to see to the family name being continued. And her money.

Elsie Hughes doesn't have any money, but she has the love of a good man, a man who wants to look after her and whose child she is carrying under her heart. Boy, girl… it doesn't matter, as long as they both survive what lies ahead.

"Mrs Hughes, I've heard you are expecting."

"I am, Milady." Elsie says and is elated to feel not a shred of shame.

"I am very disappointed." Old Lady Grantham looks at her sullenly. There is nothing Elsie can say. It's like being reprimanded. She used to simply stand and nod during those little talks.

"I thought you knew better."

Elsie refuses to say she is sorry. She may have been worried Charles wouldn't want the baby and she's been worried what they'll do, but she is not sorry. She is not sorry she has given herself so freely to her man and that he has given her something to remember her by. Forever.

"It reflects very badly upon the family and on yourself." Violet Crawley continues.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Milady." Elsie replies diplomatically.

"Perhaps it's better if you'd…" The Dowager searches for the right words.

Elsie knows what's coming. That though Lady Grantham doesn't mind her condition and her marriage to the Butler and even though his Lordship has no objections to his senior staff being married, Downton Abbey as a whole frowns upon these recent developments.

"Find employment elsewhere. I'll happily write you a good reference."

Elsie sighs. "Thank you, Milady." There is nothing else to say. This short talk is her dismissal. "And Mr Carson?" She cannot help but ask.

"He might want to stay."

Elsie doubts it, but doesn't say anything.

"We've always seen eye to eye, Carson and me." The Dowager says with pride. Elsie knows how much Charles respects his first employer, but she knows he will come with her. That he will look into managing that shop in Ripon and that they'll live in a small home.

She'll need to learn how to cook.


	29. just off the silver pantry

**A/N:** I love how we all love the bond between Carson and Lady Violet and I also love that Cora is so well-liked. This chapter's votes: Option #1: 10 votes. Option #2: no votes. Option #3: 15 votes. Option #4: 4 votes. Two persons were undecided. Based on 31 votes/reviews.

So option #3 it is!

Don't forget to vote for option 1 or 2 (only two options and both quite short, because I am ill. Illness also to blame for typos and such)!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

She has always seen right through him. They have always respected each other. He has admired her even. She is a strong woman, ruling her house and her family like an Amazon. Strong and fierce and fearless. But he'll not back down. He'll stand by his wife no matter what. He chooses to remain silent until she requires him to actually answer.

"Well. What's done is done, I suppose."

"Yes, Milady."

"Am I to deduce that Mrs Carson is…" She searches for a word. "...well?" He has to smile about the euphemism. 'Well' is good. With that word he has her forgiveness - had he needed it.

"She is indeed, Milady." He answers as pride swells his chest.

* * *

1\. She stands in the doorway to their new room. It's just off the silver pantry* and it's big enough to hold a wardrobe, a small double bed and one nightstand. She can see it be quite cozy and the bed is a foot wider than what they are making do with now. she puts her hand on her bump. She is happy to have a bit more space to expand as she herself is expanding rapidly.

She has bought some sheets and herself - extravagance beyond measure - and maybe once she had everything for the baby ready, she can start on a throw for the bed.

Elsie surveys the room again. The cradle will fit between the footend of the bed and the wall and Charles will have to take the other side of the bed, so she can get out during the night easily for feedings and changing. They'll have to see how they will handle the baby getting too big for the cradle when the time comes.

She can see herself sitting on the bed with the baby and dressing it in the fine thing she has started making for it. She wonders if it's a boy or a girl and who he or she will resemble. She supposes she is finally starting to feel the way all mothers feel when they are getting ready to welcome their new bairns. She imagines holding her child, cuddling it, feeding it, comforting it. She hums an old near-forgotten lullaby under her breath.

"Sounds like you approve." He startles her slightly and she blushes, a bit embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.

"Charles Carson, you know better than to sneak up on people like that!" She admonishes him, trying to hide her discomfort.

"I'm a Butler, dearest. Sneaking up is my specialty." He wraps his arms around her from the back. He already has trouble reaching completely around her..

"Is that your specialty?" She asks amused. "I thought it was seducing unsuspecting Housekeepers."

"I think you'll find keeping Housekeepers happy is another of my specialties." She can hear the smile in his voice and he kisses her cheek a bit awkwardly.

"But to answer your question: yes, it's very nice. It will be good to be away from the others when this little one comes. We don't want to disturb their nights."

"I hope you'll continue to disturb mine." His voice is low and her breath hitches, wondering how it is possible for him to make her want him so much by uttering a mere sentence.

"Oh… I think I can guarantee you a few months worth of wrecked nights, my love." She puts her hand on his as it lays heavily on her belly.

He sighs and nuzzles her neck. "A small price to pay." He whispers and tears well up in her eyes. She knows she is lucky to have found a man who loves her and who loves the idea of their child, even if he never asked to become a father. She turns in his arms and kisses him softly.

"We have twenty minutes…" She says and starts undoing his tie. "Would you like to test the new bed?"

* * *

2\. She stands in the doorway to their new room. It's just off the silver pantry* and it's barely big enough to hold a wardrobe, a small double bed and one nightstand. A cradle will have to be crammed in between the footend of the bed and the wall and either she'll have to climb over Charles each night for every feeding or they'll have to switch places. The bed is small, hardly a foot wider than what they are used to now and she worries it will not be enough with her ever increasing girth.

She has bought some sheets - much too extravagant, much too expensive - but they are the wrong size for the bed and she holds them in her hands, squeezing them tight. She had wanted to start on something for their bed (_their bed!_) when she was done with getting everything ready for the baby, but she wonders what the use would be now. The room is dark, there is no window and she can see herself sitting on the bed with the baby, feeding it in the dark, dressing it, hoping it will be quiet for the rest of the night and the day.

And with the room so small, what will they do when the baby outgrows the cradle? (She pushes thoughts of the baby not making it firmly away - she is feeling dreadful enough as it is.) And they are so far from the other servants, how will they ensure everyone will behave?

She sighs deeply. She puts the sheets on the only chair that occupies the corner of the room and wraps her arms around herself.

"So, what do what do you think?" He startles her and it ignites her irritation.

"Charles, you cannot think this is a good place for us to live." She tries to remain reasonable, though frustration is curling all through her body, the baby kicking her angrily.

"We'll hardly be here, my love." He responds, getting ready to wrap her in his arms and she shakes her head.

"It's hardly better than my room upstairs. At least we had space for a cot there."

"It is not big, I know…" He starts and she turns.

"It's smaller than my room upstairs!" She says exasperated.

"Elsie…"

"No, don't 'Elsie' me, now. This will just not do, Charles! It's too small, we'll be taking on a whole new set of tasks and responsibilities in addition to our usual duties. We'll need space or…"

"So what do you propose we do?" He is annoyed now.

"I don't know!" She is close to shouting and she can feel angry tears spilling onto her cheeks.

* * *

* According to my little books, there were houses that had their Butlers sleep close to (if not _in_) the silver pantry, to protect the family silver


	30. breaking in the bed

**A/N: **Thank you everybody for voting and your well wishes! I am already doing a lot better and am mostly just sniffing and terribly deaf (talking about #throwbackthursday …). Typos and weirdness courtesy of my cold medicine. Today we are meandering in the realms of fluffy mcsmut. Or smutty mcfluff.

Because these were the results of the previous chapter: option #1: 22 votes, option #2: 4 votes. A clear winner if I ever saw one!

Of course I'll ask you to vote again (or for the first time - everybody is welcome to weigh in!)! Let me know what you think and don't forget that every suggestion for the direction of this fic is taken on board and so far I have incorporated all of them. And of course everybody a big THANK YOU for being so awesome!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

He sighs and nuzzles her neck. "A small price to pay." He whispers and tears well up in her eyes. She knows she is lucky to have found a man who loves her and who loves the idea of their child, even if he never asked to become a father. She turns in his arms and kisses him softly.

"We have twenty minutes…" She says and starts undoing his tie. "Would you like to test the new bed?"

* * *

1\. He shuts the door with his foot, not letting go of her (his wife!) and deepens his kiss. She leans against him, suddenly rather weak in the knees. His arms are strong around her, his mouth insisting and supple. Her heart pounds, her arms snake around his neck, her fingers caressing the soft curls that were missed in this morning's round of pomade.

Slowly but surely he moves them towards the bed, his hands deftly opening the buttons of her dress. He has ready access to the soft, ivory skin of her chest and his mouth leaves hers to nip and suck the swell of her breasts as they rise above her shift. She lets her head fall back as he pulls at the almost see-through fabric to expose her breasts.

His lips are gentle as he kisses her skin, his tongue tender but firm as it circles first the one then the next nipple. She cannot help but suck in a deep breath and press herself against him, his desire for her obvious. She unbuttons his fly and pushes his braces from his shoulders with awkward movements, unsteady by her sudden lust for him.

He pulls up the skirt of her dress, his fingertips ghosting over the back of her stocking clad thighs, her garters and the sensitive skin between her legs. He parts her legs easily with his knee and carefully lowers her on the bed.

To her great delight it doesn't creak.

They don't have time to fully undress and there's no need. Her skin is tingling with the cool air in the room and Charles' attentions, her sex it throbbing with want and his lips are covering hers again, kissing her hard and needy and she pulls him to her, her legs wide and welcoming.

When they return to the Servants' Hall - a bit flustered, a bit undone, but not enough to make it obvious what they've done, or so she thinks - Beryl is just about to knock on the Housekeeper's parlour door and smirks as she sees Elsie.

Who can feel a blush grace her cheeks and the evidence of Charles' love running down her thighs.

"Anything you need, Mrs Patmore?" She manages to ask in an almost calm voice.

"Oh…" Beryl smiles wickedly. "Some of what you've been having wouldn't go amiss."

* * *

2\. She leans against him, her arm reaching over his shoulder to shut the door, his lips on hers, so insistent and warm, his hands sliding over her sides, grasping her hips. She wants him, she cannot hold back the moan that escapes her when his mouth leaves hers to suck on the pulsepoint on her neck. She is unsteady - a combination of her need and the constant fatigue that plagues her - and holds on to him tight, kissing him wherever she can.

He manoeuvres them towards the new bed, the wide bed and lays her down, untying her boots and taking them off, letting his fingers run up her stocking-clad calf, the inside of her knee, over her garter to the inside of her thighs, brushing her folds teasingly through the cotton of her drawers. She arches her back, relishing the friction he provides and she sighs his name, softly.

He hovers over her, kissing her skin with each button he slides through the buttonhole and revealing the ivory of her chest to him. He pulls at her shift, unhindered by her corset, laving her breasts in attention. She squeezes her eyes shut as he softly sucks at the tender flesh. She is his, unable to resist his attentions and she raises her hips, slides down her knickers (a bit clumsily, having forgotten to untie the ribbon that helps holding them up - it's difficult keeping her modesty these days, going without a discernable waist) and waits for him to return his focus to where she craves him most.

He never lets her down, he understands without her saying it and his slides his finger up and down her folds and she pants, practically begging him to take her and he whispers in her ear - words of longing, of devotion. Loving words. Naughty words and she almost cries out impatiently when she hears his trousers drop to the floor and he is between her legs - solid bulk, her man, _her husband_, and she loves him, she loves him, gods how she loves him…

"Is everything alright, Mr Carson?" Beryl Patmore asks him and he knows she would be able to see the love bite in his neck if his collar was an eighth of an inch lower.

"Of course, Mrs Patmore." He says, claiming not to understand her.

"Only I need to speak with Mrs Hughes. I need a few things from the store cupboard." The cook says slyly and he quickly calculates his priorities.

"I'll give you the key. Elsie is taking a nap. It's been a trying day for her." He offers by way of explanation and Beryl smiles, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Hmm… I bet it was…"

* * *

3\. They kiss leaning against the closed door, hungrily pawing at each other's clothes. He is undoing the buttons on her dress, sliding his hand in between the soft cotton of her shift and her skin, grabbing hold of her breast, massaging it, rubbing the tip of his thumb over the stiffening peak and she touches him through the heavy fabric of his trousers. He is so hard for her and she is so pleased that he still desires her, that he still wants her, even if she is looking… well… the way she does.

She presses herself against him, but she knows she isn't able to make love to him standing up at this point. She needs the safety of a bed, the softness of the mattress. She needs to be comfortable as much as she needs the gratification of him caressing her, of his expert touch.

"I love you…" He whispers against her skin, nipping at the tender skin of her neck.

"And I you, my love, my man…" She pants as he raises the hem of her skirt and underskirt. He palms the back of her thighs and cups her bottom, pulling her closer to him and reclaiming her mouth with his.

They are fired up, her want for him is so great it makes her dizzy. There's a ringing in her ears.

She holds her breath.

It's not the ringing of her blood rushing in her ears.

It's one of the bells in the Servants' Hall. In particular: it's the Butler's bell.

"Charles…" She moans as his hand makes it's way from her bum to her mound. "Charles…. You must stop… they are ringing for you…"

"Damn them!" He curses and stills, letting his head fall back against the door.

"Could be Lady Violet." Elsie suggests and she starts buttoning up her dress after covering her breasts with her shift again. She is near decent again, though Charles cannot go out the door in his present state.

"I wish you wouldn't say that, Elsie…" He closes his eyes, swallows difficultly.

"You have to go up. I'm sure they'll have a bell installed in this room when you aren't quick enough about it." She offers with a pitying look. "You hurry up and hurry back." She offers.

"I'll make it worth your while."


	31. banter

**A/N:** Thank you all for your well wishes (I am really getting better! my fuzzy head is starting to clear!) and for voting. You are all stars and it's wonderful to see you all so engaged, it really makes me incredibly happy you are still enjoying this weird little fic.

Results for chapter 30: option #1: 9 votes, option #2: 5 votes, option #3: 6 votes and 3 people were undecided, leaving us to conclude that option #1 won!

Thank you, and of course: don't forget to vote for these Beryl-centric options!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

When they return to the Servants' Hall - a bit flustered, a bit undone, but not enough to make it obvious what they've done, or so she thinks - Beryl is just about to knock on the Housekeeper's parlour door and smirks as she sees Elsie.

Who can feel a blush grace her cheeks and the evidence of Charles' love running down her thighs.

"Anything you need, Mrs Patmore?" She manages to ask in an almost calm voice.

"Oh…" Beryl smiles wickedly. "Some of what you've been having wouldn't go amiss."

* * *

1\. "Beryl, you are my best friend and I love you, but there are a few things I would rather keep for myself and not share with you and my husband tops off that list." She says with a smile, ignoring her blush, ignoring the blissful feeling that still lingers.

"Your husband and the store cupboard key, I'd say." Beryl retorts, still smirking and they both burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the corridor.

"Come." Elsie beckons the cook. "We'll have a spot of tea in my parlour. Neither of us has much to do for half an hour or so."

"I beg to differ, Mrs Carson. I really do, but far be it from me to not take you up on that!" Elsie shakes her head in mild amusement. She knows Beryl is unmissable in the kitchen, but thirty minutes won't hurt and it will do her good to speak to a friend.

A woman.

They sit themselves down by the table, looking at the tray with cups and saucers and they both snigger at the same time at the obvious: if neither of them fetches it, there won't be any tea for either of them. Beryl offers to get it, saying Elsie should be off her feet for a bit.

Five minutes later they sit stirring the amber liquid in their cups.

"Now you tell me what's on your mind." Beryl says with her usual bluntness.

"Who says I have something on my mind?" Elsie deflects.

"I can see it a mile off, you know."

Elsie sighs. She doesn't quite know how to start.

"Dear me, is it so bad you don't know where to start?"

"No… no, of course not." Elsie admits. "And it doesn't do to worry about it already…"

"What do you mean, 'already'?" Beryl bites into a biscuit with relish.

"Beryl… I'll be all alone when…" Elsie puts her hand on her belly.

"A midwife will come, or that new doctor who's settled in town. I've heard he's Scottish. That'll put you right at ease." Beryl teases, but it's poor comfort.

"Would you… maybe? I mean… I know it is a lot to ask and you have your hands full with your duties, but…"

Her hand is wrapped in two small, dry ones.

"Of course I will." The promise rings clear in the air. "Don't you fret."

* * *

2\. "None of your cheek, Beryl Patmore!" Elsie says with a frown, the blissful feeling of Charles on her skin quickly vanishing. "We've both got work to do and Lady Grantham won't be best pleased when her dinner tonight will lack in style."

"My my, Mrs Carson, you're mighty touchy this afternoon." Beryl says, pointing out the obvious.

"I'll have you know I am not touchy, I just…" She stops mid-sentence. Beryl is right. She is touchy. She is touchy and cranky and tired. With the feeling of her husband on her skin fading, she recognises the dull, persistent ache of her lower back, the uneasiness of her breath getting shorter. Her belly feels heavy and tight. Perhaps making love so vigorously had been a bad idea. She takes a deep breath as a pain shoots through her, her child not moving and a slow panic starts it's way from her core up her throat, her heart beating wildly.

There's a rush of blood in her ears, can feel the colour draining from her cheeks and she grabs Beryl's arm.

"Elsie!" The cook's voice seems to come from far away and she doesn't know what to do, her head fuzzy, her mind sluggish except for the fear that is constantly growing. She is being pulled into her parlour and eased into her chair.

Her feet are being lifted upon a stool and the cool hand of Beryl is on her cheek.

"Now, Elsie, you just take a few deep breaths."

She tries, but it's difficult, her belly is tightening again. "Beryl… will you fetch Charles?" She asks, her voice laced with avid fear.

"Elsie, listen to me…" Beryl has her hand between her two smaller ones. "It is much too early. You just try to calm down and you'll see there is nothing wrong. You've just been overdoing it a bit. Baby is much too snug in there to come and meet us."

But how can Beryl possibly know?

* * *

3\. "We'll need to find you a husband of your own then!" Elsie deadpans and both women laugh out loud after processing the remark.

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs Carson. To have a man make demands of me at all hours of the day? It's bad enough I have my own work to worry about!" Beryl's voice is filled with mirth.

"I'll have you know that not all those demands are met nor that all those demands are displeasing, Mrs Patmore."

Oh, it's lovely to have a bit of banter. It's nice to have this understanding with someone. Friends, Elsie realises, are every bit as important as the love of her husband and she will have to rely on it for some time and soon too.

"Say no more, Mrs Carson." Beryl pulls a face. "I think I'll stick to my stove."

"I'm sure a stove will keep you warm, Mrs Patmore."

But not the way a tall, broad body can when its' skin is pressed against your own. It cannot comfort you with a single touch. It cannot give you pleasure (she can still feel her undoing coursing through her, her skin tingling, her sex moist, the memory of Charles caress vivid). It will not hold you when you are scared or lonely.

"It's all I ask for. I can depend on my stove, Mrs Carson." Beryl sounds quite serious now and not for the first time Elsie wonders what secrets Beryl Patmore keeps under her clean cap. They are not so young they easily engage in sharing confidences, but not so old shame consumes them. She thinks how someone must have hurt Beryl deeply. Or perhaps she may have witnessed love gone wrong for someone she held dear.

"How about we have a spot of tea, Mrs Patmore. Leave our charges to fend for themselves. We've trained them well, I'm sure they can manage for half an hour or so." She offers in thanks for the friendship that comes her way so easily.

"Don't mind if I do." Beryl accepts and they pick up a teapot and a tin of biscuits in the large kitchen, filled with young girls slaving away over cutting boards.

They settle in Elsie's parlour and Elsie sighs when she sits down, the dull ache in her lower back easing off a bit.

"You need to look after yourself, Mrs Carson." Beryl says and pours them both a steaming cup.

Elsie doesn't answer, but smooths the fabric of her dress over her bump.

"Had you ever expected to be where you are now?" She asks, not entirely clear in her question.

"I wanted to be a cook and now I'm a cook." Beryl states plainly and bites into a biscuit.

"You never thought of going another way, then?"

"Oh…" Beryl blows into her tea. "I'd not say that…"


	32. only six weeks now

**A/N:** Guys, it's never been this close before when it came to options! Either you guys really adore Beryl (and who doesn't, let's be honest here) or you really want your drama fix. Well, this time option #1 won, but you've given me a lovely little bit for later on. As always: input on where to take the story is very much appreciated - thinking of three possible storylines every chapter is not that easy, so help me get inspired!

**Results** (for those who enjoy this kind of thing: option #1: 9 votes, option #2: 6 votes, option #3: 7 votes, undecided/ambiguous: 5 votes. It was really exciting to see the options going head to head!

Now, as always: don't forget to vote, we have three completely different options today - all rather dialogue heavy. Remember it REALLY makes a difference to me if you do vote (and I hope you are still enjoying participating!).

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

"Beryl… I'll be all alone when…" Elsie puts her hand on her belly.

"A midwife will come, or that new doctor who's settled in town. I've heard he's Scottish. That'll put you right at ease." Beryl teases, but it's poor comfort.

"Would you… maybe? I mean… I know it is a lot to ask and you have your hands full with your duties, but…"

Her hand is wrapped in two small, dry ones.

"Of course I will." The promise rings clear in the air. "Don't you fret."

* * *

1\. The new room takes some getting used to, Elsie thinks as she watches her husband undress. He is so tall and broad and he seems to fill the room completely, his hands brushing the ceiling when he pulls his vest over his head, bumps his knee on the small table that holds the pitcher and basin. She cannot help but chuckle.

He unties his shoelaces and almost trips.

"Sit down before you do yourself an injury." She says, ever practical.

"How do you manage to get out of your clothes without nearly killing yourself?" He wonders out loud as he sinks down on the bed, the mattress sinking with his weight.

"I sit down before I start." She smiles. "And I'll remind you that though I may be even expanding, I am not a tall, broad, long-limbed giant of a man."

"So that is how you see me?" He asks whilst popping up to rid himself of his trousers.

"Hmm… Tall. Broad. Dark. Handsome. Rumbling voice that just about makes me swoon each time it speaks specifically to me." She says, running her hand over his shoulder down the small of his back where she gently kneads the sore muscles.

He sighs, letting his head fall back. "I could get used to this, you know. To having you so close and things being so easy. It's nice to have this place where we can be just us, isn't it."

"Yes, it is. Even if you are covered in bruises and we've already broken the soap dish." He lays down beside her. He is on his belly, her hands don't leave his back, massaging the knots out of his back. The weeks leading to Christmas are always very busy, especially with the little girls in the nursery upstairs.

"I'll get you a new soap dish." He promises and lets out a contented moan as she pushes her knuckles into the base of his neck.

"It won't be just the two of us soon." Elsie says, focusing on her husband's back, running her thumbs almost under the edge of his shoulderblade.

"No. We'll be a family soon. You think it won't be long, do you." He says instead of asks and she knows it is because he doesn't want to let on that he is worried.

"A fair few weeks, but yes. It won't be very long now. Five weeks, maybe six?"

He carefully turns around to lay on his back and he pulls Elsie to his chest. She lays down her head and she hears his heartbeat, steady and strong.

His hand caresses her bum through the fabric of her nightgown and his other hand comes to rest upon her belly.

"Our unexpected present." He says and kisses her softly and she hums contentedly.

"Hmm… A son or a daughter. There are times I can't believe it and then there's this well-placed swift kick to my ribs and I am reminded that it is all real."

"It is, isn't it? You are going to be a mother. I am going to be a father."

"Yes. Now, we had best get some sleep, bells will be ringing before you know it." She tucks the blankets around them and snuggles up, gets more comfortable, her breath evening out.

"Goodnight, daddy." She wishes him sleepily.

"Goodnight, mummy…" He repeats.

* * *

2\. "Goodmorning, Mrs Hughes! It's your half day, is it?" Mrs Reid at the post office asks good naturedly.

"It is, Mrs Reid." Elsie rummages around her bag to find her wallet and pulls it out. "I'll have a sheet of one penny stamps and I'd like to post these two. Am I too late for the afternoon post?"

Mrs Reid pulls a sheet of penny stamps from the right drawer under the counter and takes Elsie's letters (one to her sister and one to her mother - finally telling them too of their news, the two-folded surprise to them).

"That'll be eleven pence then, Mrs Hugh… I mean, Mrs Carson. Oh dear me, I do tend to forget, don't I?" The short woman chatters and Elsie blushes a bit.

"Doesn't matter." She says and awaits her ha'penny change.

"Must say you are looking well, Mrs Carson. Blooming, I might say."

Elsie bites her lip and puts her hand on her bump without knowing, protecting her unborn child from the wagging tongue of the postmistress.

"Good to see you so happy, I must say. I always thought you too pretty and too good to be just a servant up at the Abbey."

"I am still employed there, Mrs Reid." Elsie responds a bit testily.

"Ah, for now. But I've no doubt you'll chuck it all in when your child's come. Most women do." Mrs Reid prophetises.

It's on the tip of Elsie's tongue to say she is not most women, but the bell rings and there are new customers coming in. The Misses Parker enter and let out little squeals of delight when they see Elsie. Elsie closes her eyes for a moment and takes a steadying breath.

"Oh! Mrs Carson! My my my, look at you." Miss Parker says, nodding at Elsie's protruding belly.

"It won't be long by the look of you!" The younger miss Parker - Essie - adds. "I remember when mothers-to-be were confined when they came upon their time." She says, her head cocked to the side.

"I've work to do, Miss Essie, I can't be confined." Elsie explains, thinking of the thousands of working class women who work up to their labours and are back at work within three days - just like she is planning for herself.

"Good thing you are looking so healthy. I take it you are well?"

"Quite well, thank you…" Elsie takes a breath to finish her sentence, but is being interrupted by Miss Parker.

"And Mr Carson? He is well, I take it?"

"Yes. Yes, he is fine. I'm sorry, ladies, but I really have to dash." She says it and knows there is not a chance she can 'dash' as such, not even if her life depended on it. But she is out the door with her stamps and without the letters she had written, so her errands in the Post Office had been taken care of and she stands outside the small building, trying to find her equilibrium when Mr Arnett approaches her after seeing her from his outside display of apples and pears.

"Are you quite alright, Mrs Carson? You look a bit peaky." He asks her worriedly and Elsie sighs.

"I'm fine, Mr Arnett. Really. I need a few things from your shop and then I'll be heading back to the Abbey." She says, hoping to reassure the middle aged man.

He offers her his arm and she takes it, knowing how the village will be talking of her refusing for months if she doesn't. She buys tuppence worth of boiled raspberry sweets, a stick of peppermint and a bar of Charles' favourite soap.

"Are you certain you can make your way back by yourself, Mrs Carson? I can ask one of my girls to accompany you." He offers and Elsie needs all her discipline not to roll her eyes.

"Mr Arnett, I'll be fine. Really. It's not half an hour back and the exercise will do me good. It's a beautiful day."

He coughs, says something under his breath about stubborn women and takes her money. With her purchases safely in her bag, Elsie leaves the shop and walks steadily down the street and out of the village.

When she returns to their shared room, she puts the sweets and the bar of soap on his pillow - a small gift for putting up with her waking him at all hours of the night from the painful cramps in her legs - and sits down.

She is more tired from her leisurely stroll into town than she would be from having been on her feet all day at work.

* * *

3\. "Mrs Carson!" Lady Grantham is shocked, Elsie can hear it in her voice and it's quite amusing.

"How can I help you, Milady?" Elsie asks in between shallow breaths. She has reached the top of the stairs after the bell had rung for her, but she isn't as nubile as she was before. Her belly is heavy and large and the baby seems to be pressing up her lungs, making it impossible for her to draw good, deep breaths.

"I was just going to go over our plans for Christmas, but you don't look at all well." Lady Grantham's hand is soft on her shoulder. She doesn't know quite what to think of that (it feels nice, it feels good to have someone care, someone who is not Charles, someone who is not Beryl - both of them walking the fine line between being protective and overbearing and both often slipping).

"I assure you I'm quite alright, Milady." Of course that is the moment the baby decides a swift kick in the ribs is in order and she hardly manages to suppress a yelp. Instead she closes her eyes and lets out a breath.

"I remember that…" Cora Crawley smiles. "Come into the Drawing Room, Mrs Carson." She asks and Elsie follows her employer, hoping things will be back to normal, but instead she is being offered a seat (which she gingerly takes, grateful to be off her feet for a few minutes) and a cup of tea, which she vehemently (though respectfully) refuses.

"You say you wanted to share your plans for Christmas, Milady?" Elsie starts and tries to ignore the build up of a corker of a stomach ache.

"Yes. Yes, I did. Well, it's not too out of the ordinary. Mostly the same as last year, really. Only we have Lady Sybil to consider now on Christmas morning."

Elsie smiles. Sybil Crawley is a beautiful little poppet in the nursery, with dark curls and a mischievous look on her little face. She can pull herself up now, but not yet stand without being aided. Her nurse is fond of her as are both her sisters. Lady Grantham is as involved as she is allowed and Elsie wonders how she will be giving her child the attention and love it will need.

"Last year the young ladies were all brought to the hall, Milady, to unwrap a few presents before breakfast. There was a luncheon for the family and Lady Rosamund and her husband joined you as well as the Dowager Countess."

Elsie can feel her stomach contort at the flips the baby is doing and she wonders why the wee thing has to do that _now_? There is plenty of time for such acrobatics when she is in the solitude of her parlour or her bedroom. She absent-mindedly rubs her bump, trying to ease the uneasiness somewhat.

"Mrs Carson, have you spoken to the doctor yet?" Lady Grantham changes the subject suddenly and Elsie has to process the words quickly to keep up.

"No, Milady. There's no need for a doctor, I don't think."

"I'll ask him to check in on you. He is new in the village and he is very kind. He was here when Lady Sybil…" She doesn't finish the sentence and there's no need. Elsie understands perfectly.

"You'll need to see him, if only for my peace of mind, Mrs Carson. I know things can't be easy for you and you are doing an admirable job. I wouldn't know how to run this house without you! So it is important you keep in good health and listen to what he has to say."

And with those words, Elsie is dismissed, the plans for Christmas hardly discussed and an appointment with a doctor she doesn't need shoved in her lap.

She makes her way to the hall and mentally takes note of everything that needs doing before the Christmas tree is being brought in and opens the green baize door only to find her husband there.

"Hello, you." He says and Elsie laughs out loud at this strange greeting.

"Hello. Where are you going?" She asks when she calms down.

"Finding you."

"Why, Mr Carson! You've won! Here I am." She teases and he steps aside to let her in and the door closes behing them.

"It's time for your nap, my love." He says seriously and Elsie swats his chest.

"I do not need a nap!" She admonishes and yawns, killing the effect immediately. She smiles and admits defeat. In between Charles, Beryl, Lady Grantham and the new doctor, she is bound to make it through the perils that lie ahead.


	33. examined

**A/N:** Hey all! Thank you as per usual! You guys are the best.

I think last chapter was a bit too different in terms of choices, I hope today you'll be enjoying the options that are based on the winner of last chapter's voting: #3. Don't forget to let me know what you vote!

results: option #1: 4 votes, no votes for #2, 13 votes for #3 and one person was undecided.

* * *

_previously on One Year: _

She makes her way to the hall and mentally takes note of everything that needs doing before the Christmas tree is being brought in and opens the green baize door only to find her husband there.

"Hello, you." He says and Elsie laughs out loud at this strange greeting.

"Hello. Where are you going?" She asks when she calms down.

"Finding you."

"Why, Mr Carson! You've won! Here I am." She teases and he steps aside to let her in and the door closes behind them.

"It's time for your nap, my love." He says seriously and Elsie swats his chest.

"I do not need a nap!" She admonishes and yawns, killing the effect immediately. She smiles and admits defeat. In between Lady Grantham, Charles, Beryl and the new doctor, she is bound to make it through the perils that lie ahead.

* * *

"Elsie? Elsie, love?" Charles wakes her gently and she smiles softly at him. She is sprawled out on the bed, thankful for the space and stretches.

"Charles… What time is it?" She asks, her voice a bit slow from sleep.

"Almost four o'clock." He answers.

"You should have called me!" She exclaims, trying to scramble up. His hand is on her shoulder.

"Mrs Carson?" There's a gentle voice, a brogue thicker than her own and it brings a smile to her face. "May I come in?"

The new doctor is of average height and medium built with sandy hair and an extravagant moustache.

Charles looks at her before stepping aside. "Of course, Doctor." He says and Elsie checks if she is decent - or decent enough, there is only so much a threadbare nightie can hide.

"Clarkson." The doctor shakes Charles' hand and turns to Elsie.

"Lady Grantham has asked me to look in on you." He starts and Elsie nods with a bit of a smirk.

"Lady Grantham worries too much." Elsie dismisses the statement.

"Well, now I am here, perhaps you'll allow me to examine you?" The doctor asks looking around the room for a place to put his bag and his coat. Charles is quick in helping him, takes his woolen overcoat and the smart hat.

"Since you're here, why not, but I fail to see the need, doctor."

"Don't tell me it's your Presbyterian thrift, Mrs Carson, because Lady Grantham will take care of my fee."

Elsie laughs out loud. She likes the new doctor and he rubs his hands together swiftly. "Would you please lower the covers?" He rolls his R and it puts Elsie more at ease than she cares to admit.

* * *

1\. He puts his hands on her belly, putting a bit of pressure on the roundness and the baby immediately reacts, kicking quite hard. The doctor laughs.

"It's a feisty little one." He remarks, but doesn't stop his examination.

"Don't I know it…" Elsie grumbles good-naturedly.

The doctor stands up again and pulls up the covers. "How are you feeling?" He asks and Elsie laughs.

"Like I am going to be having a baby." She answers and she sees Charles shake his head from the corner of her eye.

The doctor smirks. "I see. But are you very tired? Are your feet very swollen by the end of the day? Aches?"

Elsie shakes her head. "I've never had this at hand before." She waves over her belly. "But I think a bit of fatigue would be expected at this point. I do have a lot of stairs to walk during the day."

"Hmm…" The doctor looks down on her and she wonders if he had expected her to say something else.

"Well, I'll leave it in Mr Carson's hands to make sure you take your rest and plenty of it. And keep taking those naps. Eat well. Drink well."

"Be merry?" She jests and now it's the doctor who laughs.

"Perhaps not too merry, Mrs Carson, but yes. You and the baby are doing very well. No need to worry. You let me know when it's time and I'll look after you myself." He looks around for his coat.

"I did tell you everything was fine." She says to Charles who is standing by with the coat, sounding every bit the stubborn Housekeeper.

"Don't let her fool you, Mr Carson. She may be well, but it is never a bad idea to call in a doctor at this stage. You send for me when you deem necessary." He shakes Charles' hand again, picks up his bag and inclines his head to Elsie before donning his hat.

"Not too merry, now, Mrs Carson." He warns her again and she nods.

"Thank you, doctor." She says too and watched her husband escort the Scotsman out the door.

* * *

2\. She is thankful his hands are warm. He is putting a bit of pressure on her belly and seems to be measuring the baby through her skin. He takes a tape measure from his bag and checks the distance between the start of her bump and her navel. There's a long, dark line running down from her navel and she feels a bit self conscious about it.

The doctor quietly turns around, bumps into the small nightstand and rummages around in his bag, pulls out the doppler and listens to the baby. "Are you experiencing any discomfort?" He asks then.

"Discomfort?" She repeats. She is carrying her husband's child that decided to kick her in the ribs at the most inopportune times, who weighs heavily on her bladder and her back aches from carrying the extra weight up flight after flight of stairs and her ankles are swollen from the corridors she walks.

"Fatigue? Pain?" She then understands he already knows.

"I've been ordered by my husband to nap in the afternoon."

"Good. Please, do not give those up unless you really have to. You are not doing as well as I would like for a woman as far along as you. The baby is alright, just quiet this afternoon I think. Heartbeat seems strong."

Elsie looks at him, suddenly worried.

"The baby is alright, isn't it?" Panic flies to her throat, squeezing it painfully.

"Yes." He states plainly and it's not doing much to relief her panic.

"Doctor, please?" She asks.

"Mrs Carson, the baby is doing very well. You are doing as well as can be expected from someone working long hours at someone else's beck and call. You need to slow down."

She nods, looking at Charles who squirms around the doctor to take her hand.

"And these rooms won't do, Mrs Carson. I know you have little choice in the matter, but when the baby comes, we'll need a bit of space and then when the baby is here, it will need a light room and fresh air."

"I'm afraid we'll have to do without either." Elsie says, her lip wobbly.

"I'll talk to Lady Grantham." The doctor replies. He shakes Charles' hand and lets himself be helped back into his coat and he takes his hat and bag.

"I'll see you out." Charles says and he squeezes Elsie's shoulder. She watches the two men leave and sinks back into her pillow. She puts her hand on her belly, feeling her child move gently to rest against her palm.

"I'm sorry…" She says, blinking back a tear.

* * *

3\. "Alright, now, lift your gown." She shows him her bump, the skin tight with little red and silver lines, a dark line running from her navel down to her mound and she has no idea if this is something usual, but she is afraid to ask. At least the doctor doesn't say anything about it.

He touches her belly and asks her questions about the last time she's had her monthly bleeding and he puts a bit of pressure on his hand and she can feel her baby tapping against it. She smiles a little.

"Are you sleeping well?" He asks and she nods.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose." She responds.

"What do you mean?" The doctor looks at her very seriously.

"I'm being awoken to… you know…" She blushes and the doctor nods. "And my lower back does hurt at times. And the bed isn't very big, whereas… I am." She jokes.

The doctor takes a tape measure from his bag and measures the dark line she is so ashamed of.

"I must say, Mrs Carson, you are not as big as I had hoped you'd be for how far along you are and you do look quite pale."

He lowers her gown over her belly and takes a look at Elsie's calves and ankles. "Do you have headaches?" He asks and Elsie nods.

"Not too bad. Only when it's been a busy day."

Charles comes over to the bed and takes her hand.

"Hmm…" The doctor frowns.

"The baby will come sooner rather than later, I think. I'll inform Lady Grantham I've put you on bedrest. I wish the weather was a bit better so you could soak up some sun, but unfortunately it's as bad as it can be in the Highlands."

"Bedrest?" She asks, not believing what she's heard. "I can't! I can't be on bedrest, doctor. What will they do?"

Worry grips her heart and squeezes.

"It's either bedrest or…" The doctor doesn't finish his sentence, but he doesn't have to.

His meaning is clear.

Elsie grips Charles' hand tighter.

"Oh God…" She whispers. "What are we going to do?"


	34. small spaces, hot heads

**a/n: I just HAD to post! Thank you deedee for your help!** G**uys, I'll fix everything when I get home, just don't hesitate to vote, okay? I miss you!**

**Option #2 was voted for most, btw, in chapter 33!**

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

_"The baby is alright, isn't it?" Panic flies to her throat, squeezing it painfully._

_"Yes." He states plainly and it's not doing much to relief her panic._

_"Doctor, please?" She asks. _

_"Mrs Carson, the baby is doing very well. You are doing as well as can be expected from someone working long hours at someone else's beck and call. You need to slow down."_

_She nods, looking at Charles who squirms around the doctor to take her hand._

_"And these rooms won't do, Mrs Carson. I know you have little choice in the matter, but when the baby comes, we'll need a bit of space and then when the baby is here, it will need a light room and fresh air." _

_"I'm afraid we'll have to do without either." Elsie says, her lip wobbly._

_"I'll talk to Lady Grantham." The doctor replies. He shakes Charles' hand and lets himself be helped back into his coat and he takes his hat and bag._

_"I'll see you out." Charles says and he squeezes Elsie's shoulder. She watches the two men leave and sinks back into her pillow. She puts her hand on her belly, feeling her child move gently to rest against her palm._

_"I'm sorry…" She says, blinking back a tear._

* * *

1\. "Mrs Carson?" The voice of the Countess echoes through the Servants' Hall and she gets up as quickly as she can, unceremoniously shoving the little shirt she's been sewing in the drawer of her desk, opens the ledger to the page she'd been working on that morning, puts a pencil on it and pulls back the chair so it looks like she's been working. No need to let her employer know there are little fifteen-minute windows here and there she can use for herself. She then opens the door and strides (she refuses to acknowledge her stride is more of a waddle) towards the corridor.

"Have I missed you ringing, Milady?" She says as she walks towards Lady Grantham - who is looking elegant and poised.

"Oh no, no please don't worry. I came to check on your new rooms. Dr Clarkson seems worried they aren't quite up to snuff."

"Dr Clarkson is an old busybody." Elsie responds, not showing she is pleased with her countryman's interference.

"I'm sure he means well." Lady Grantham smiles kindly. "Won't you lead the way?" she then asks.

Elsie shows Lady Grantham down the corridor and into the small room just off the silver pantry - the smell of silver polish sharp in her nose.

"Oh..."

It's not even a word, only a sound that contains so many unsaid things.

"Milady?"

"Dr Clarkson said it was a bit small and a bit dark, but I never expected..." She turns around and bumps into Elsie, who has stood herself against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible (which is wholly impossible, she knows).

"It's not big..." She starts and steadies herself before turning the switch. Harsh light floods the room and Cora's hand flies to her mouth.

"Oh dear me!" She exclaims. "This will never do!" Lady Grantham is standing too close for comfort, but there is no way Elsie can widen the distance between them.

"I'll speak to his Lordship this evening. I understand it's a hassle, but you'll simply have to move again. Dr Clarkson was quite right." She puts her hand on Elsie's shoulder. The cold fingertips chill her skin through the fabric of her dress.

Cora Crawley nods, as if she's made up her mind. "Mrs Hugh... Carson, we'll get you settled before that baby comes. You mark my words."

* * *

2\. "Elsie, love? Lady Grantham has spoken to his Lordship and he's offered us other rooms. Upstairs." Charles says quietly. Elsie looks up from her sewing (a tiny little shirt, the first she's managed to make in between the demands of the family upstairs and the planning of Christmas, the Servants' Ball and New Year's) and smiles.

"Already? I hope you take a leaf from Lord Grantham's book and always listen to your wife's good ideas," she teases and puts away her work.

"Oh, no, I meant the Dowager Countess." He looks a bit as if he means the Queen of England and it irritates her more than she can say.

"Hmm. Well." She answers and pushes herself up from her chair, disregarding the nagging pain in her lower back. "Lead on, Macduff."

He takes her by the arm to steady her on the stairs. It's not necessary, but he means well and she loves him for it. She's a vessel of moods that change by the hour and it's tiresome and tiring - there are moments she hardly recognises herself. She is glad the baby will come soon.

Charles opens the door to the tiny room that's normally used for impoverished second cousins or snoring nephews. Lord Grantham stands in the middle, looking as if he is about to offer her a winning lottery ticket.

"Well Mrs Carson? What do you say? I heard the doctor said your room in the Servants' Hall was too dark and I thought: there's a nice bright room in the East wing that will do, why not give it to you."

He is looking pleased as punch and Elsie can feel Charles' eyes burn a hole in her. She takes a good look and bites her lip. She needs to remain calm, she can't be flying off the handle now, even though rage is starting to coil deep inside her.

The room is as small as the one downstairs and there is one small window. Barred. The wallpaper is peeling and there is a damp patch in the corner.

There is no electric light.

She coughs and slowly starts speaking.

"Thank you for your kindness, Milord..." She sighs before continuing. "But this room is smaller than the room downstairs and at least we don't have a bed full of peeled off chalk from the ceiling every morning."

She can feel Charles stiffen and Lord Grantham looks like a deflated balloon.

"I say!" He exclaims. "You are being rather ungrateful!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way sir." Elsie answers coldly. "But I must be off now, I've to make certain the guests for Christmas will all be accommodated satisfactorily."

She turns and stalks off - insofar as that's possible when eight months along.

She can just make out the words Lord Grantham spits at her husband:

"You keep your wife under control, Carson, or I'll see you both out by the end of the week!"

* * *

3\. He places the cradle at the foot end of the bed. There's not an inch of space between the small wooden structure and the wall. Her belly presses against him as she tries to get around him to make up their baby's bed. He grabs her by the waist (where her waist used to be, but he knows better than to remark upon it, aware she constantly worries about her figure having altered so) and they turn. She smiles at him, but her eyes don't light up.

He kisses her cheek, runs his hand up and down her back. He points at the crib, then to the small sheet in her hand: "You'll take care of this," he says, suddenly making up his mind. This small room is simply not enough. It won't do. He has given the family upstairs his unfailing loyalty and gratitude, has put them before his own happiness and before his wife's (how pleased he is to have married her, how proud to call this exquisite creature his wife), but he's had enough. "And I'll be speaking to Lord Grantham." He stalks off before Elsie can say anything.

"Milord. If you can spare a moment?" He asks formally and finds Lord Grantham sighs deeply.

"What is it, Carson." He sounds short.

Charles clears his throat and steels himself. "Our room, Milord, Mrs Carson's and mine... It's making my wife ill, the doctor says. I know it's been a great kindness of you..."

"By Jove, man!" Robert interrupts. "When will enough be enough! I've let you stay on and have aided you in perpetuating the blatant lie that is your long marriage, and now you've come asking for more? Bad show, Carson. I expected more of you."

"As had I of you, Sir." He can't believe he says the words out loud.

The lack of empathy (from a man who couldn't dress himself if he tried, from a man who has 32 rooms to his use, each the size of an office clerk's home, from a man who has three little girls in a nursery large enough to hold ten of his and Elsie's little ones) lights a fire in him.

"The room downstairs is too small for a family. There are two things I could do to look after my family," he continues rather sternly, "Ask you for a bigger room, one where a person can stand up straight and a cradle can be placed by the bed, without my wife having to clamber halfway over the bed to reach it."

Robert Crawley is getting a bit red in the face and opens his mouth to interrupt, so Charles presses on - he's getting up steam now.

"Or we'll give our notice now and are out of your hair in a week." He looks at his employer calmly, though his heart pounds painfully in his chest. He's not discussed this with his Elsie, but he's done it now and he awaits Lord Grantham's answer to the ultimatum Charles has put before him.


	35. comeuppance

**A/N:** Oh my stars! You guys! it's finally happened: we have a tie in the votes. I have decided to be the one who gets to pick which is the winner (which felt only slightly dictatorial) and I have chosen option #3. Because I felt it was high time Charles Carson stood up for his heavily pregnant wife and his life with her.

There were 31 votes, none of which were for option #2 and fourteen each for #1 and #3. There were 3 undecided votes.

Thank you so much, DeeDee for beta'ing this fic and helping me with the finer subtleties of the English language!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

"The room downstairs is too small for a family. There are two things I could do to look after _my family_," he continues rather sternly, "Ask you for a bigger room, one where a person can stand up straight and a cradle can be placed by the bed, without my wife having to clamber halfway over the bed to reach it."

Robert Crawley is getting a bit red in the face and opens his mouth to interrupt, so Charles presses on - he's getting up steam now.

"Or we'll give our notice now and are out of your hair in a week." He looks at his employer calmly, though his heart pounds painfully in his chest. He's not discussed this with his Elsie, but he's done it now and he awaits Lord Grantham's answer to the ultimatum Charles has put before him.

* * *

1\. "This is the last of it," he says and lowers a picture frame into a wine crate. He'll carry it up to their new rooms later. They'll have a bright, rather large bedroom with plenty of space for their things and the new baby's crib and a smaller room adjacent when it's time to move their child into its own room. Elsie watches him from the stripped bed, her face slightly pale (but that could be the harsh electric light), her nostrils flaring with each breath she takes.

"Are you alright?" He asks, as is his custom - he asks her a fair few times a day, is nervous now that the baby could come at any given moment. He's happy Lord Grantham has given in and that they are staying. Downton is his home; he would have hated leaving it. But as it was he simply served the family their Christmas dinner, watched the three young ladies be excited about Christmas and let Elsie discuss their new living arrangements with Lady Grantham. Lord Grantham acts as if nothing happened between them and he prefers it that way. Not everything needs to be spoken out loud, especially not a situation of mutual need.

He is roused from his musing by a sharp intake of breath, a quiet moan that comes from his wife (so different from when she is under him, or rather beside him these days - her belly too large for them to be making love the more traditional way, he has enjoyed navigating how to give her pleasure, enjoyed how her altered body gives him such gratification, even if it's been a fair few days now since the last time).

"I'm fine..." Elsie lies and he is aware of it, but his mind doesn't seem to cooperate.

"What is it?" He asks.

"It might be nothing..." She replies. "I've been having these pains for a day or two now."

"You've been having pains for two whole days?!" he exclaims, his voice booming and echoing in the small room. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I am telling you now!" She yells back, winces and he feels immediately guilty.

"Lets get you upstairs and call for Dr Clarkson." He suggests, his eyes darting between the box filled with their few possessions and his wife, panic rising steadily in his chest.

She nods and reaches out for him. He helps her up and supports her as she makes her way into the corridor, up the stairs and through the green baize door.

They cross the hall and just as she puts her foot on the first step, Elsie's water breaks.

"Get Beryl!" She shouts.

* * *

2\. "I think I've packed everything. There's only two cases, so I'll carry them to the station. It will be a long walk; if you like I can ask one of the grooms to run us up there?" He is talking aimlessly, worried because they are leaving, today, to a small furnished flat in Halifax where he has been promised employment at an import and export firm. He doesn't like to think of Elsie all alone there, with not a single friendly face to turn to when her time comes (which must be soon; she is tired and irritable at all times and she is losing that happy glow that has surrounded her for the past three months or so).

"Charles?" He turns at the pain in her voice and finds his wife hunched over the stripped bed, holding on tight.

"Elsie... What is it?" Though he already knows. Nothing compares to the sudden onslaught to his senses: his heart pounds and his head swims with panicked thoughts.

"I'm not going to make it to the station..." She says in a small voice, followed by an anguished moan.

"What shall I do?" He asks, his voice pitched high and echoing through the room.

"Tell Beryl..." Elsie pants. "Maybe she'll allow me to use her room. And send one of the hallboys to get Dr Clarkson. We are still in Lord Grantham's employment until after noon, I doubt he'd mind much..." she groans. "For heaven's sake, man, get going! The baby won't wait, you know!"

He nods, jumps up - in his haste he kicks over the valise he was packing but he can't be bothered to pick it up, he hardly notices the soft white blanket that has fallen on the floor, or the small white shirt - and runs down the Servants' Hall corridor, into the kitchen.

"Mrs Patmore!" He manages to croak and he is thankful she catches on quickly.

"It's started then? Of course it would at the most inopportune moment." He watches her wash her hands and dry them. He wants to tell her to hurry up, but knows it would be no use. She leads the way back to their old room, where Elsie is picking up the clothes from the floor. Just as she smiles at the sight of Beryl Patmore coming to her aid, her water breaks.

"Oh dear…" Beryl almost laughs and Elsie straightens up, her hand flying to her mouth.

"I hate to say it…" Elsie starts, "But someone else can clean up that mess." Beryl does laugh then and takes Elsie's arm.

"Let's get you settled. I'll have one of my girls make you a nice cup of tea."

* * *

3\. "We're here," he announces and helps her down from the cab, pays the driver and picks up their two suitcases. Hers is filled with the two dresses she owns, three photographs and the new things for the baby. His holds his other suit, their marriage license and his Butler's Book - he had found he could not part with it, that he couldn't give it up, not to the new man Lord Grantham had hired. He had copied most of the important things into a new book for his replacement, whom he had met only once.

"Come on," he says and ushers her to the front door through the rain, which he opens with one of the keys that have been mailed to him. "Only two flights of stairs, my love," he says and he runs up to open the door to their flat and puts the cases in the hall. He hurries back to help Elsie and he finds she is leaning against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I know it's not what we wanted, but it will have to do for now. We'll find something better soon." He touches her cheek softly, kisses her brow and then she tenses, moans.

"Truly, Elsie. It's not as bad as all that. The house is furnished and the landlady has made the beds and everything. I'll pop down the chippie, get us something to eat soon."

Elsie lets out a long, unsteady breath.

"Come in, love, let's get you settled." HIs voice booms through the stairwell and he can hear a door opening and closing. He takes Elsie's elbow and helps her conquer the stairs step by step. She sags against him once or twice, holding her breath, keening almost and he pushes the thought away: this cannot be happening now. This is not how things are supposed to go. It cannot be time; it's not even Christmas yet!

They reach their new front door and there's a woman in a dirty apron and a young child on her hip. "And who are you when you're at home?" She asks, her Yorkshire accent thick, but her voice kind and her eyes warm.

Elsie makes to shake the friendly neighbour's hand as Charles pushes the door open and then it happens: a pool of clear water appears under his wife and his panic rises . Elsie's hand has flown up to her chest.

"Charles!" She sounds about as panicked as he feels. "Oh my God! What are we going to do?"

"Well… you best go call the midwives," the neighbour says to Charles with a quirky smile. "I'll look after your wife. She looks like she could use a nice cup of tea."

"Elsie… My name is Elsie…" she manages to say, looking more relieved than anything at the way things are going now.

"Hello." The woman takes Elsie's hand and hoists her child up higher on her hip.

"My name's Gladys."


	36. transition

**A/N:** My dearest readers, today we'll be having a bit of a different vote, with an extra question. You'll see what I mean when you get through reading!

Thank you all so very much for your support, it means so much to me - reviewers, voters, guests, followers, tumblarians. Everyone.

And of course DeeDee for beta'ing!

Results for chapter 35: **option 1: 19 votes** ; option 2: 5 votes ; option 3: 4 votes ; undecided: 4 people. In all: 32 votes, one death-of-devices threat.

I don't think this needs a trigger warning, but just in case: non-descriptive **labour** ahead!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

"You've been having pains for two whole days?!" he exclaims, his voice booming and echoing in the small room. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I am telling you now!" she yells back, winces, and he feels immediately guilty.

"Let's get you upstairs and call for Dr Clarkson," he suggests, his eyes darting between the box filled with their few possessions and his wife, panic rising steadily in his chest.

She nods and reaches out for him. He helps her up and supports her as she makes her way into the corridor, up the stairs and through the green baize door.

They cross the hall and just as she puts her foot on the first step, Elsie's water breaks.

"Get Beryl!" she shouts.

* * *

She is drinking her cup of tea, propped up by a few pillows on their brand new bed (she had helped Beryl line the mattress with old newspapers and two side-to-middle sheets before being gently covered in a blanket). Her feet are cold and she is nervous, but doesn't like to show it. Beryl is practical and no-nonsense, but even she can get a bit jumpy, especially when it comes to being ill - she isn't ill, per se, but she is having a bit of an emergency; even Elsie has to admit to that. They chat, discuss names for the baby, joke how the new baby will try to make it in time for the old year to go out, how he or she doesn't want to compete with fireworks and champagne. Time seems to move slowly as they wait for Dr Clarkson to come and Elsie can tell her pains are increasing in intensity and are coming quicker.

Charles has come in a few times to check up on her and every time he popped in, she was just sipping tea and nibbling on a biscuit. He looked utterly confused. Elsie leans back, putting her empty cup on the nightstand and bracing herself for the contraction that ripples through her body.

At first she had thought: "If this is it, it's going to be just fine." But by now she is getting slightly overwhelmed by the amount of pain. She is starting to get nauseated and needs to use the bathroom really badly, but isn't sure she can make it on her own. She lets out a long drawn out moan and reaches for Beryl's hand.

"Help me…" She asks, pointing to the door and Beryl shows this is not the first time she's been in a delivery room by helping her up and guiding her slowly - ever so slowly - to the bathroom, where Elsie relieves herself, immediately feeling a lot better.

Until the next contraction hits.

Nine months ago she wished she weren't in this position and she hasn't changed her mind about it. This is not something she wants to have any part of. She doesn't want to be there at all, someone else can have this baby, she doesn't want anything to do with this shivering and vomiting and fear.

* * *

Charles is sitting in his pantry, nursing a - by now cold - cup of tea. He feels lost, worried, frustrated. His wife is in the attic, having their baby in their new room. The room is sparse still, most of their belongings still in the room off the silver pantry. All he has managed to do was bringing Elsie's painstakingly packed cardboard box filled with baby things up to their rooms earlier that morning. Before _everything_ suddenly started happening.

Elsie's painstakingly packed cardboard box filled with baby things is the only thing he's managed to bring up so far. That was this morning, before everything suddenly started happening.

He cannot even hear her down here (he feels he ought to be at least close enough to hear her, to be able to be by her side in ten steps or less, just in case she needs him - just in case he needs her, to make certain everything is going well - or well enough), but it's the only place he feels safe. He would be of no use hovering on the landing, treading a hole in the corridor's floor, listening to his wife in agony. Or so he assumes, he has never been present when a child was being born, but he knows enough to be aware of the perils and the pain of childbirth.

He had peeked in on Elsie a few times earlier, but she had looked relatively relaxed then, serene almost, drinking her tea, talking to Beryl.

_Thank God for Beryl_, he thinks.

He has taken off his coat, undone his collar. He hopes there won't be a bell soon, asking him to come up with a full tea service. He cannot bear to think of having to announce guests. He doesn't think he could do it without his voice giving way. The only person he had wanted to see had come soon after he had sent a boy out to fetch him. The doctor had clapped his shoulder, told him he would do all he could and had run up the stairs before Charles could follow him.

Many thoughts plague him as he watches the minutes tick away on the clock over his desk. The thought of losing Elsie, of losing their child. Ofbeing a father **(**hedoesn't know how to be a father, not really, only has his own father as an example and he passed away many a year ago). Ofbeing employed in a house that expects him to be at the family's beck and call at all times whilst having an obligation to his own family.

He worries about money and about giving his child the tools it needs to lead a successful life. He thinks of his Elsie, his love for her, of how he ought to have married her sooner, taken her away, to give her peace before embarking on this journey that was thrust upon them (of course he claims full responsibility, of course he does, but it's never been truly right, never been completely proper).

Charles is startled by the knock on his door. It's too bold to be one of his footmen, it's definitely not one of the hallboys. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking how all he wants is to be left alone, before calling out, gruffly:

"Come in!"

He is rather surprised to find Robert Crawley on the doorstep holding a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

"I thought you could use some company," the Earl says.

Charles nods.

Perhaps he could.

* * *

If asked, she wouldn't be able to describe it - the pain, the way her mind is whirling - unable to focus, to maintain a single thought - how somehow she manages to feel slightly hungry in between contractions. She is thankful for the few bites of toast she has managed to get down, for the cups of tea Beryl keeps pouring diligently.

The pains come every few minutes, flowing and ebbing and she is starting to feel so very tired.

Doctor Clarkson is calm, quiet. He doesn't tell her what to do - not yet, but she knows he will and that it won't be long before she'll be in the thick of it. She puts her hand on her belly, wanting to comfort her child, but another pain makes her pull away, grasp at the sheet, squeezing her hands tightly.

"I'll have a bit of a look, if that's alright," Doctor Clarkson says - his request for consent mechanical. She nods, tries not to think of the doctor as a man looking at her, but as someone trying to help her through this.

"Beryl…"

Beryl's hand is immediately upon her own.

"I'm scared…" she says, bites her lip.

"That's alright, lass," Beryl answers, her thumb running over Elsie's knuckles. "It's alright to be afraid, but you just keep in mind that you can do it."

Elsie is thankful for her friend's faith in her, though she doesn't feel strong right now. She feels tired, weary almost and the pain is getting more intense, stronger.

"Well, Mrs Carson, if you feel able to, I'd say you'd best start pushing soon."

Elsie never thought those words could be so liberating and as the pain builds, she grunts - a deep guttural sound, nothing she would normally ever utter in her life - and allows herself to go with it.

'It cannot be much longer,' she thinks as her body takes over completely.

* * *

Two hours pass, then three. Lord Grantham has poured them both a small glass of scotch and they have both sipped the amber liquid slowly. They've not spoken much. Charles is glad not to be alone and he couldn't have asked any of his lads to keep him company - this is his own burden to bear, but in this moment, he and his employer are somewhat equal. His Lordship has sat like this three times so far, the first time accompanied by his father, the other two by Marmaduke Painswick (for all that the Dowager Countess said about him, Charles thought Lady Rosamund's husband a kind man and a gentleman). It was good of his lordship to join Charles and he took it as an apology of sorts. That things could be the way they used to be between them. The relationship between employer and employee as much restored as possible.

Charles knows he is not a man who easily forgets, but it's enough.

"She is strong." The Earl's voice slices the silence. "And stubborn."

Charles nods. "She is that, Milord."

"The wait is the worst."

Charles doesn't know if that is supposed to make him feel better. He looks at the clock. It's been six hours. He thinks how tired Elsie must be, especially because she had been feeling pains for two days already. He starts imagining terrible things happening to his wife and unborn child, remembers all those times he's been told about women dying in childbirth. Recalls terrible things from his past he thought he'd buried long ago. He almost jumps out of his seat when the door to his pantry opens without a knock.

It's Beryl, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. "Well, Mr Carson. I think your presence is very much wanted upstairs."

He gets up so fast, he knocks over his chair and he passes Beryl, hardly stopping to quickly squeeze her upper arm. He strides down the Servants' Hall, takes the stairs two steps at the time and runs down the hall to reach their new rooms where he knows Elsie will be.

He opens the door slowly, tentatively, peering into the [not dark, not unpleasantly so… warm, but not bright… it's about seven o'clock on 30 or 31st December…]. He sees the doctor tidying away his instruments, but he only pays attention to his wife, sitting up against the headboard of their new bed, a small bundle in her arms.

"Won't you come in?" she asks, looking both tired and elated. "And meet your… "

* * *

1\. … son?"

_Please suggest a name for baby boy Carson!_

* * *

2\. … daughter?"

_Please suggest a name for baby girl Carson!_

* * *

**A/N: **Don't forget to vote and get your choice for a name in!


	37. what's being said

**A/N:** Oh my! Girl has won - so sit back and allow me to coo over cutesy clothes. Or maybe not…

Results: boy: 13 votes ; girl: 18 votes ; one of each: one vote ; undecided: 1 vote (33 one votes in all)

Naming the baby: I have compiled a list of all the name suggestions and simply picked out two that appealed to me most: a first and a middle name. If I've not chosen the name you suggested, that does not mean I don't love you anymore!

shortlist for girls' names: Poppy, Bonnie, Grace, Mairead and Elizabeth

shortlist for boys' names: Jonathan, Elliot, Darach, David and Leonard

There are only two choices today. I hope that makes voting easier for you. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

It's Beryl, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. "Well, Mr Carson. I think your presence is very much wanted upstairs."

He gets up so fast, he knocks over his chair and he passes Beryl, hardly stopping to quickly squeeze her upper arm. He strides down the Servants' Hall, takes the stairs two steps at the time and runs down the hall to reach their new rooms where he knows Elsie will be.

He opens the door slowly, tentatively, peering into the softly lit. He sees the doctor tidying away his instruments, but he only pays attention to his wife, sitting up against the headboard of their new bed, a small bundle in her arms.

"Won't you come in?" she asks, looking both tired and elated. "And meet your daughter?"

_Please suggest a name for baby girl Carson!_

* * *

He leans against the doorframe and watches her, a cup of tea in hand. It's for her: Beryl tells him Elsie needs to drink a lot, that it's important especially now her milk's come in. He hadn't really given any of that any thought. He had simply enjoyed the fullness of her breasts, the heaviness as he touched them when they made love.

But he watches her now, their little girl latched on to her breast and Elsie looking at her baby tenderly, not knowing he is there. They are both tired - Bonnie wakes three times a night at least, but it's only been four days. They had seen in the new year with Beryl by their side, fussing over Elsie and Bonnie, handing them lovely little treats (all leftover or held back from the upstairs party) and offering them a drink (she had given Elsie a glass of deep dark stout and Elsie had laughed through her tiredness, had drunk it dutifully).

"How are my girls?" He asks then, softly, not wanting to startle them.

"We're fine." Elsie looks up and smiles at him. "She's just having her lunch and I'm enjoying the peace and quiet."

He puts the teacup on the night stand.

"You look beautiful." He says and kisses the top of her head. He tenderly runs the back of his fingers over her cheek. He knows it doesn't sound right, but he means it. There's a sparkle in Elsie's eyes and a warmth about her that wasn't as apparent before.

His life will now forever be split into three parts: his life before Elsie, his life before Bonnie and now his life with both his wife and newborn daughter.

She doesn't answer him, she is so focused on the baby and he sits down on the edge of the bed, close to them, as close as he dares. He doesn't want to hurt Elsie (she is in considerable pain, even if she doesn't admit it and he doesn't want to know the details - he is thankful Beryl comes up to help a few times a day) and he doesn't want to disturb Bonnie. Feeding isn't as easy as they (though he doesn't know who 'they' are) make it out to be.

* * *

**1\. **There's a knock on the door and when he goes to open it, he finds Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess. He is shocked to see them here, in this corridor that is the domain of the servants. He doesn't think either of the ladies has ever been up here.

"Is Mrs Carson up for a visit?" Lady Grantham asks, a pretty smile adorning her face.

He falters a bit. "I'll… I'll ask, Milady…" He doesn't like keeping them standing there on the threshold, but he has no choice. It's one thing for him to see his wife uncovered, but he doubts she'd like her employers to see her like this. He doesn't much like them to see his wife exposed either, feels the need to protect her, to let their rooms be a sanctuary where she can feed their baby in quiet comfort.

"Elsie?" He asks. "The ladies are here to see you, if you feel up to it." He announces and watches her as she frowns first and then lets her hand fly to her hair, checking it (it's been in its customary braid for the past few days and she is looking young and pretty, like a lass really, not a Housekeeper).

"She has fallen asleep… " Elsie indicates the baby. "Just… give me a moment to cover myself up."

He nods and returns to the ladies in the corridor.

"She'll be ready shortly." He says and is a bit startled with how easily he slips into his Butler persona. How it's like a coat he can slip on whenever needed.

And if he can slip it on, he obviously can slip it off. It is suddenly quite clear to him that being Butler is not longer his main priority.

Being a good father and husband is.

"Well, she won't need very long, will she? I cannot imagine what she can be doing in there." The Dowager says, her voice laced with impatience.

"Mama!" Lady Grantham gasps.

Charles can feel a blush creep up on his cheeks and is thankful when Elsie calls out to him and he shows the ladies into the bedroom.

Elsie is sitting up, the baby in her arms, but looking as dauntless as ever. Regal almost. As if she were granting an audience.

Lady Grantham is by Elsie's side in a flash, putting her hand on Elsie's shoulder for a moment.

"Congratulations, Mrs Carson."

"Thank you, Milady." Elsie smiles and pulls the blanket back a bit to reveal the baby's face.

Every time he sees Bonnie's face, Charles' heart stops a bit. She is so perfect - her pale rosy complexion, the long lashes that flutter against her cheek, the tiny little nose, the plump lips.

The Dowager Countess remains by the foot of the bed, hardly giving the baby a glance.

"What have you named her, Carson?" She asks imperiously.

"Bonnie Mairead, Milady." Charles says

"She's pretty as a picture, Carson." Lady Grantham says and Charles' heart swells with pride.

"And how are you doing, Mrs Carson?" The Dowager asks and it's rather unexpected.

"I'm well, Milady."

"Good. I'm glad." Lady Grantham says before the Dowager gets a chance to react. She fidgets a bit. "Has the doctor said anything about when you'd be able to return to your duties?"

Charles' jaw clenches and he balls his hands into fists to keep from speaking.

"Not yet, Milady. I don't think it would be too long." He wonders how it's possible his wife remains so calm.

But when he catches her eye, he sees how hurt she is.

And that is when he makes up his mind.

* * *

**2\. ** "When you're ready, do you think I could take Bonnie to meet the other children?" He asks, his voice gentle, unassuming - or so he hopes.

"They are not our children, Charles." Elsie corrects him, though he never said such a thing.

"I know. But I think they are curious. They may not understand why you've not been around the past few days."

"They must have realised what was going on." Elsie touches Bonnie's downy hair and taps her cheek. "Don't fall asleep on me, little one…" she says in a sing-song voice, trying to prevent Bonnie from nodding off at her breast.

"I don't think they do. If you recall neither Lady Edith nor Lady Mary were aware of Lady Sybil's coming."

"Lady Edith is five, Charles, I doubt she understands most of what is going on in a house this big; she lives by routine."

"As do we."

"I think our routine has been thrown off by this little one." Her focus goes to the baby again; she watches her guzzle her milk and he watches them again. He is happy to have his routine thrown off, doesn't mind it in the slightest, not today. The change is too fresh for him to be upset; the feeling of elation is still present.

"And you want to show off your daughter to Lady Mary." she suddenly says and it's true. He wants Lady Mary to understand he has more responsibilities now. That the coming of Bonnie means Mary has to share him, that she is no longer the most important little girl in the house. And he is well aware it won't be easy for her. But he thinks it's best to be honest about such things and at six years old, Lady Mary is clever and more understanding than Elsie gives her credit for.

Not does she give their employers much credit. Lord Grantham had sat with him until Beryl came to call him and he's been offered a celebratory cigar from the Earl's private collection and Lady Grantham has been asking about Elsie's health every day since Bonnie's been born. They have been very friendly in their dealings with him.

"Bonnie is certainly beautiful enough to be shown off, don't you agree?" he deflects.

"She is…" Elsie kisses Bonnie again. "Well… my little one… time to go with your dad…" She gently lifts Bonnie up into Charles' waiting arms. He is still a bit insecure about holding her, but he is getting better.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" Elsie's voice wavers slightly.

"I will." He assures her. "I'll never let anything happen to her."

He thinks that Bonnie is the first to make him look critically at his life, the first to let him think there is life outside the walls of Downton and she is the first to have leaped into his heart the way she has. He turns and sees Elsie lying back in the pillows, her eyes closed, her nightgown not yet buttoned up.

He pulls up the blankets to cover her and leans over to kiss her cheek. She doesn't react.

Fallen asleep, he thinks and gets up from the bed. Neither Bonnie nor Elsie wakes when he opens and closes the bedroom door. He holds Bonnie close to him, her tiny body a warm, welcome weight (so different from the tea trays and wine crates he usually carries) and makes his way to the nursery.

He knocks and the door is opened by Lady Edith.

"Oh hello." She says, her head cocked to the side. "Have you finally brought a present for me?"


	38. surprise

**A/N: **Hi everybody! I know it's been a while since I posted an installment of this Choose Your Own Adventure story - a whole week!, for which I apologize (my excuse is that I am also writing 'Umpire' and have more going on in my real life at the moment). Today's two choices may seem very similar at first glance, but they are not. I hope you'll enjoy picking your favourite, so **don't forget to vote!**

Results for chapter 37: option #1: 8 votes ; option #2: 15 votes ; undecided: 1 vote

Thank you, Deedee for giving this the once (twice, thrice) over!

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

He holds Bonnie close to him, her tiny body a warm, welcome weight (so different from the tea trays and wine crates he usually carries) and makes his way to the nursery.

He knocks and the door is opened by Lady Edith.

"Oh hello." She says, her head cocked to the side. "Have you finally brought a present for me?"

* * *

1\. "Not a present as such, Lady Edith," he says and opens the door completely so he can walk into the room.

Edith's face falls and he smiles at her. "But I do have a surprise."

"For me?" Edith asks, still young and entitled enough to think the world revolves around her.

"For you and your sisters."

The nurse is settling Lady Sybil for her afternoon nap and Lady Mary is sitting by her small table, a child's tea-set laid out. She sits up so straight, he sees the Dowager Countess in her: all strong will and duty. Six years old she is and if there are to be no more siblings for her - in particular a brother, a big responsibility will be placed on her shoulders.

He shifts Bonnie. There may be other hardships for his little girl, but being put on the spot like that will not be one of them. Though venison for dinner and choosing new frocks every other month are definitely less than hardships. Following the fashions and making a suitable match is never going to be enough for a daughter of his and Elsie's; Charles has greater ambitions for his little girl. He decides, as he watches Lady Mary present Lady Edith with half a slice of buttered bread, Bonnie will get the opportunity to go out into the world and make something of herself, to become as fiercely independent and strong as her mother is.

"Well, Carson? What is it?" Lady Mary asks. He has to bite his lip not to respond too quickly, to let her know she is the child here and as such has to be respectful of her elders, but he's only the Butler and not her father. It's not his place.

"Well, Lady Mary, Lady Edith… As you may have noticed, Mrs Carson has not been around much the past few days."

The girls nod, but he can see they haven't missed Elsie - and why would they: Elsie gives orders to maids who look after the children and speaks to their mother when they are not around. Still. Elsie is as much part of Downton as he is and it needles him a bit they don't acknowledge her as such. Mary smiles at him then and he can no longer be irritated with her - he wonders if that smile will always have such an effect on him and he carefully kneels beside the young girls, showing what's in the blanket.

"Did Mama have _another_ baby?" Lady Edith asks*, almost horrified.

"Of course not, silly." Lady Mary admonishes, obviously thinking her little sister dim. "Didn't Carson just say Mrs Carson hasn't been around much? It's Mrs Carson's baby."

"It is indeed, Lady Mary." Charles looks at Bonnie who is still sleeping soundly and smiles. Every time he peeks at his daughter, a smile bursts from him, he cannot help it - nor does he want to.

"She is even smaller than Sybil!" Lady Edith says as she watches the baby, having stood up from her chair and leaning slightly against Charles.

"Thank you for showing us, Carson." Lady Mary says, but remains seated and she picks up her teacup, takes a sip of the cold tea. She hardly grants him a glance. "We'll get on with our tea now."

And with that the little girl dismisses the Butler who had always been her champion, her steadfast rock. He doesn't claim to completely understand, but he thinks he knows what may be wrong:

Lady Mary is jealous.

* * *

2\. Charles smiles at Lady Edith. She is so small and blonde, whereas her sister is dark and stronger-looking. Edith tends to slouch a bit and Mary always stands up straight, as she is doing now.

"What do you have there, Carson?" Lady Mary asks and points at the bundle in Charles's arms.

Charles makes his way over to the small table in the middle of the nursery and gingerly sits down on one of the small chairs - it creaks in protest under his weight.

"It's a baby!" Lady Edith says excitedly. "Did Mama have another baby? Is it a boy? When was he born? What is his name? Can I hold him?"

"This is Bonnie, Lady Edith and she is my daughter," he says and the words warm him so, he finds it hard to remain the impassive butler he is supposed to be with these little girls.

"You have a daughter, Carson?" Lady Mary frowns and he can see how she is trying to understand what he just said.

"I do. She was born New Year's Eve."

"Is that what the fireworks were for?" Lady Edith asks.

"Of course not, silly, for the baby of a butler?"

It's the first time Lady Mary chips away a piece of his heart. He's never heard her speak so callously and inconsiderately.

"Did we have fireworks when Sybil was born then?" Edith asks and Charles bites his lip to refrain from laughing.

"No." Lady Mary says and she shuffles her feet over the carpet.

Bonnie sleeps and makes a soft sound.

"Did you bring her to play with Sybil, because Sybil is sleeping too," Edith says then and reaches out to touch the baby. Mary is with her in two steps and grabs her hand.

"I get to touch her first!" she says and gently pets Bonnie's cheek.

"She looks very pretty. She isn't as red-faced as Sybil was. Why do you think that is, Carson?" Mary addresses her greatest champion.

"I don't know," he confesses and shrugs. "Maybe Lady Sybil had been crying when you first saw her."

"Maybe. Well, you can leave her with us now, Carson. Nanny will look after her and we'll play with her and she can share Sybil's nurse*** and you can go back to work."

* * *

* Whilst we tell our children that mummy is having a baby growing in her belly and it is going to take a long time for it to get here, in the late 1800s children were very much told the stork brought the babies or that angels did. Of course, there are instances where babies are being ordered from France: fanfiction dot net slash s slash 10533214/1/

** Ladies of high(er) standing usually did not feed their babies themselves. There was a thriving culture of wet nurses in the UK, though from the 1850s on, this practice became less commonplace. However, it was still happening in the 1890s - especially with women who were supposed to produce an heir. Breastfeeding _can_ halt ovulation and thus be the reason a woman doesn't conceive (PSA: BREASTFEEDING ISN'T RELIABLE CONTRACEPTION).


	39. a change is gonna come

**A/N:** Thank you everybody so much for voting and your encouragement, you are lovely. Today we'll be having three different timejumps, three life-changing moments and thus three options to choose from! If you think: hey, these look a bit definitive - well, you're right, this is the second to last chapter! To ease the pain, these final three options are all HUGE - they are all as big as a regular chapter of my multi-chapter-fic chapters!

Thank you, Dee for assuring me that schmalze Muck is basically the best. Much hearting, yo.

As always, my darlings: **DON'T FORGET TO VOTE!**

* * *

_previously on One Year:_

"I get to touch her first!" she says and gently pets Bonnie's cheek.

"She looks very pretty. She isn't as red-faced as Sybil was. Why do you think that is, Carson?" Mary addresses her greatest champion.

"I don't know," he confesses and shrugs. "Maybe Lady Sybil had been crying when you first saw her."

"Maybe. Well, you can leave her with us now, Carson. Nanny will look after her and we'll play with her and she can share Sybil's nurse and you can go back to work."

* * *

Time goes by and Charles had been confronted with having to explain to Lady Mary that Bonnie would not be joining her and her sisters in the nursery. She hadn't quite understood, but she accepted it with a brilliant smile and the announcement that she didn't mind too much because she and Edith were getting a governess and she wouldn't have had time to play with Bonnie anyway. Charles had nodded seriously.

"Perhaps you can visit Bonnie when it's not a school day," he had suggested.

"Do you think we could?" She had been quite excited about the idea. "Downstairs? Where the kitchens are?"

"We'll have to ask your Mama."

"Oh, it will be alright then, Mama never says 'no'." Lady Mary had dismissed his suggestion with ease. "And maybe Edith wouldn't have to come, she could have her tea with Sybil."

Charles doesn't claim to understand why there's such rivalry between the two sisters. He sees their differences so clearly - the dark, strong beauty of Lady Mary, the fair complexion and the quiet demeanor of Lady Edith; Lady Mary's conviction of always being right, Lady Edith's worry she never is. They are so similar in their fight for attention from their parents, their grandmother. Lady Mary favours both the Earl and the Countess in colouring and countenance; Lady Edith looks more like her aunt Rosamund and her late grandfather.

"We'll see, Milady. Your Mama might not like you coming round so much."

It hurts him that his daughter - his beautiful, perfect little girl - is deemed not good enough by the family he serves. He had always respected the family (according to Elsie he served them in a way that wasn't right; she once told him he had lost perspective, that the line between professional and personal attachment had faded to the point that it was nearly invisible), but their treatment of Elsie (and himself) when they had found out Bonnie was on the way had been less than stellar.

He had expected more from them.

But they are his family and he forgives them.

* * *

1\. The Season is coming near: she can feel it in every page she turns in the ledger; she can hear it in the sounds of trunks being hauled from the attic. When she wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of Bonnie's murmuring or little cough, she cannot fall asleep again, knowing Charles will be away from them for sixteen weeks.

Last year she had given him a send-off he would remember (and she is quite sure they'll never forget now), this year letting him go will be almost more than she can bear. The lack of his solid presence in her bed every night will make it impossible for her to truly rest. She'll see his smile in Bonnie's little face every time she looks at their daughter.

Her stomach aches with the anticipation of the morning he'll leave and she knows she won't be able to hide it. Beryl has seen it in her already - Elsie knows because her favourites are starting to appear on the dinner table every other day now, there are more visits to her parlour, more requests of taking Bonnie for a stroll in the garden (they wrap her up and hold her close* - the wind can be treacherous in March: cold and biting).

She'll be Housekeeper for those long months. Housekeeper and mother, but not a wife. She knows he'll write and she'll write back. For the first time her letters can be full of longing and words of love. She'll receive flowery lines about his dedication to her and questions about their daughter. She'll tell him how Bonnie grows like a weed, how she'll be teething, how she grabs hold of anything and explores the items with her lips and tiny teeth.

A meagre substitute for seeing Bonnie with his own eyes. Cold comfort during this long absence.

Charles sighs in his sleep and she slips out from between the sheets. The attics are cold - drafty, but she doesn't need to go down the corridor. She only needs to go through the door that's being kept ajar every night and she holds her breath as she pushes it open further and steps into her daughter's room. She kneels down next to the crib and watches Bonnie sleep. Her beautiful little girl.

Last year Elsie had not looked forward to the Season - she never did. She would always get lonely, she could get so unhinged. Especially when the summer never seemed to end, when they went a week, two weeks, without rain, without storm. She had wished Charles a safe journey, she had wrapped herself around him, had welcomed him into her depths and he had taken her, had given himself completely and here she sat now - Bonnie the result of that goodbye that had hurt so much.

She will have to tell him to be more careful this time. She doesn't know if she could conceive - old wives' tales say she can't, not with her baby still so dependent on her breast, but she doubts it, if a woman can bleed, a woman can grow, she just _knows_ \- but she doesn't want to risk it. She doesn't want her husband coming home to her, to the same news, to repeat what had happened last year. Though of course this time it would be different. The ring on her finger makes it different. The signature on a contract filed away at Somerset House makes it different.

She smooths her daughter's hair, checks her breath (she keeps on being so afraid that one day she'll find Bonnie lifeless in bed, she cannot shake that fear, it's with her constantly (she blames herself, her mother, the baby that didn't live when Elsie was five and had been sent to check on one morning when the rain had been coming down in sheets), kisses the small hand.

Her gorgeous daughter who will grow tall and strong, who will sport beautiful dark hair and twinkling eyes. Who will be smart as a whip and so precise in everything (Elsie already sees it in her, the way Bonnie latches on and lets go when it's not _exactly right,_ refusing to drink). The daughter of a man who finds it hard to change - she knows things will become difficult when Bonnie gets older, when it's time for her to have boyfriends and when she is ready to go out into the world - and a woman who had felt trapped within the walls of a place that wasn't her home.

Elsie doesn't want to think of her husband being just like her father, doesn't want to compare herself to her mother. She doesn't want to see herself in the child that is sleeping so peacefully in her crib. They are different people. They are not toiling in dirt, not knowing if their crops will make it, if their livestock will thrive.

"What's wrong?"

His voice is so soft, it seems to caress her cheek with its rumble. He sinks to the floor, sits next to her, watches his daughter before turning to her.

"I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go."

Elsie sighs. "Then don't."

"I have to."

"Do you?" She isn't convinced. Why must he go? Why must he leave her behind with their baby, lonely and unloved. She isn't part of Downton the way he is. She can easily be replaced, there are hundreds of capable housekeepers to be found in the country.

The family might even find a capable butler. Perhaps not one who is woven into the foundations of this pile of brick and mortar, who is appreciated so and counted upon and part of a world Elsie doesn't understand - but there are butlers to be found, good ones, excellent ones.

"Don't go…" she starts crying silently, tears running down her face, falling on her nightgown.

"What's brought all this on?" he asks patiently. "I've always gone away for the Season."

"You think I didn't cry before?" she counters.

"Oh, my love…" He wraps her in his arms and her tears stain his pyjamas. She tries to be quiet, not to wake the baby. Her round little cherub with the dark curls and piercing eyes, who finally sees fit to sleep through the night.

"Your place is here with us," she hiccups. "The family can find another butler to wait on them in London. I have only one husband, Bonnie only one father."

"What do you want me to tell them, Elsie? They have been very lenient, very… kind… to us."

"Have they, Charles?" She remembers the tiny room they stuck them in when she was so big she could hardly move. She remembers Doctor Clarkson had to intervene.

Silence hangs heavily between them, only cut by the soft and even breathing of their daughter.

"She'll not remember who you are when you come home. You'll have been away for half her life."

The words fall on them heavy as boulders. She feels she has no choice. One hundred and twelve nights they'll be apart. She doesn't feel guilty for punching him this blow. His head is bent, his hand rubs his face.

"I don't know how…" he finally says.

"Step by step. Word for word."

"Will you help me?" He sounds small, so unlike the broad man she cradles between her legs at night, so different from the dominant Butler who scolds footmen.

"Don't I always?" she asks in return and curls her fingers around the back of his hand, pulls it away from his face.

He nods in agreement.

"Our lives have changed, Charles," she whispers. "Last year was the final time you went away as just a man. Just a single man as many others. But you came home to obligations just waiting to be taken up. You have cared for us so well, Charles. You are a wonderful husband, a good, kind, sweet father. I see the way you look at Bonnie. I remember how you looked after me, how you tried to make things right when you came back from the Season last year and found me, already showing and it's just…"

She sighs, she keeps rambling on because he doesn't speak. He doesn't say anything and she keeps feeding him words in hopes of hearing him talk to her.

Bonnie stirs, makes a little grumpy sound.

"Everything is different now."

She is a bit startled by his sudden words.

"Yes."

"I am not quick when it comes to change."

"No. No, but you always try."

"And I love you. And Bonnie."

"We love you too."

Bonnie's eyes open. They watch how she wakes, slowly, her hands in little fists. Bonnie smiles when she sees her father, reaches for her mother and Elsie picks her up, holds her close. He touches his daughter's cheek and Bonnie grabs his finger, gripping it tight.

"I'll try," he promises.

And Elsie knows he'll keep it.

* * *

2\. Christmas is coming and they are sitting in Elsie's parlour. There are steaming cups of tea for them and pieces of shortbread, a piece of a marzipan pig for Bonnie, who is playing on the rug, trying to put blocks on top of each other, squealing in delight when they fall over. The wind is howling around the house, there's the promise of Christmas lunch drifting through the Servants' Hall as Beryl is making preparations with her girls.

Things have been going well for them, good even. They have survived the Season - even though the family had decided to go on to Scotland for an additional month. Their letters had been filled with longing; with descriptions of Bonnie's growing and learning. She had missed him every night as she had turned in, every morning as she woke up. To fight off the overwhelming sense of loneliness, she had let Bonnie sleep in their bed (it made for easy morning and late night feedings too - she had told herself it was just because it was more practical, had not once admitted to herself it was because she could see Charles' eyes in her daughter's, his smile, his wayward curl falling over the smooth forehead).

Beryl had joined her for evening tea, had helped her with Bonnie.

When Charles had finally come home to them, she had welcomed him with all she had to give. She smiles to herself - the welcoming had been quite enjoyable and they had celebrated for a month at least, his big, burly form warm next to her on her pillow, so close, too close not to take advantage of at any given time.

She worries her lip. In the morning they'll have their private celebration. Under their small tree in their room, there's a puzzle for Bonnie, a newly knitted scarf for Charles. And then the other gift she's hardly been able to not tell him of, to keep from him.

She dreams away for a moment, until Charles small cough brings her back to what they were doing. They have been pouring over the ledgers to find that one mistake either of them has made that has the tally gone all wrong. She's been having trouble focusing - she is tired, a little emotional, frustrated with the demands of the family during this festive season (if she is honest, she's a bit annoyed they never seem to have more than ten minutes to themselves, that there's always someone ringing for Charles, there's always something to take care of for lady Grantham that cannot wait).

"Sorry, what were you saying?" she smiles at her husband.

"That the family has decided to go to Scotland for the New Year's celebrations."

Her smile fades. "What do you mean? What do you mean 'the family is going to Scotland'? What… I don't understand."

But she does. She can feel her blood start to boil, she can feel how anger is making her nostrils flare.

"They expect me to come with them," he adds and she can see he is sorry.

"You can't go."

"You know I have to."

"No! No, you don't have to go. They can take anyone else, Frederick is a good footman, he can be your stand-in." She is trying to be practical, tries to find a solution, she doesn't want him to go, he can't go and that family! This family they slave away for from early morning to late at night without as much as a thank-you, not as much as a raise (they've not gotten one in years), this family that expects them to be machines, automatons without feelings, without a life of their own…

"You know I need to go with them. It cannot be helped." He doesn't sound very apologetic. In fact, he sounds much like he thinks she is being very silly and it pushes her anger over the edge.

She pushes back her chair, the legs making a screaming, screeching noise as they scratch over the tiles. She picks up Bonnie and her ball. She is trembling with fury.

"You go! You go with your precious _family_! I'll stay with ours on _our daughter's first birthday_, I'll look after her and and the next one. You go! Be with them! We both know they will always come first!" she shouts, tears streaming down her face and she opens the door, steps over the threshold and slams it shut, the walls quaking. She doesn't see the look of surprise and disbelief on Charles' face, the realisation he's _really_ done it now.

She stalks away and Bonnie starts to cry. "Daddy! Daddy!" Elsie kisses the baby's hair (dark and curly, just like his, she is so like him, her baby, her eldest, her big girl, her beautiful child - the unexpected gift that came of her love for this man, this infuriating man, this man who will never put her first, who will never put their daughter first).

Elsie finds herself in their room, putting her other dress in a valise, Bonnie's few things, clean nappies, her little stuffed toy Charles brought back from London in September. Bonnie is still crying on the bed and Elsie sinks down next to her.

"Oh Bonnie Mairead…" Elsie kisses her child again, gathers her up, hold her close, opens the front of her dress and brings Bonnie to her breast. "It's not your fault, my little love…"

Her own tears fall in Bonnie's hair.

She doesn't look up when the door opens.

"What are you doing?" his voice is filled with anxiety, with worry.

"Packing our things," Elsie says.

"Whose things?"

"Bonnie and mine's."

"Oh Elsie, please. Don't. Don't go."

She looks up then. "I don't know, Charles…" she starts, "I don't know what to do."

"Wait… wait at least until after Christmas. I'll… I'll figure out a way… I'll stay. I'll stay with you. With Bonnie."

Elsie nods and with a small, sceptical smile she returns her attention to her daughter as she is still suckling.

In the morning they sit together, a small pile of buttered toast on a plate, steaming mugs of tea waiting to cool and Bonnie is trying to undo the wrapping from her gift with clumsy fingers. Charles picks his daughter up, plants her on his lap and helps her, untying the string that holds the paper together. This is his daughter's first Christmas and there's a coldness between himself and his wife (his beautiful wife who had blown up the day before, had shouted something he isn't certain he understood right) and he doesn't know what to do about it.

So he helps Bonnie and kisses her hair and coos with her as she finds it's a wooden puzzle. He puts her on the floor and shows her how to pull out the small pictures and how to put them back. He returns to sit next to Elsie and picks up his gift to her. He's had it since the Season, had deliberated the difference between spoiling and spending too much, between luxurious gift that would delight her and over the top present that would ignite her wrath.

"Happy Christmas…" he says, keeping his voice soft, gentle and she takes the present with a wan smile. She is looking tired; there are dark circles under her eyes, the lilt of her voice when she thanks him is missing.

He watches her as she lifts a small box from the brown paper he had wrapped it in (he had decorated Bonnie's with pencil drawings of Father Christmas, of reindeer, snowflakes, Christmas baubles) and opens it.

"It's very beautiful…" she says and he sees how a tear drops on the hand that is holding the hairpin to the light.

"When I was away, I couldn't get you out of my mind, couldn't stop thinking of you, of our baby girl. When sent on errands, I'd pass this little shop and they had this on display. I thought it would be lovely against your hair. That it would make you even more beautiful than you already are."

"Thank you, Charles." Elsie answers in a whisper. She leans in to kiss his cheek, softly, nothing more than a brush of her lips against the smoothness of his cheek.

He pushes the scarf up a bit against his neck - it's his gift from Elsie and it smells of her. He can feel the hours of work she's put in the small stitches, the pattern.

"I love you, Elsie. I love you," he urges. He needs her to know, to believe him. "I love you both - I couldn't imagine my life without you, without Bonnie."

Elsie nods again, her eyes lowered and she is fiddling with the hairpin. She touches her hair, then lifts the pin, places it perfectly. The colours of the enamel brighten the red highlights in her hair and she looks up again.

"There's one more gift," she says and points at the small package under the tree and he picks it up for her.

"Is it for Bonnie?" he asks and Elsie smiles, this time a bit brighter.

"Not as much as it is for you."

He is happy to see the smiles she has been giving him have grown in intensity, but she is sporting a giddy, enigmatic one now.

"I am sorry, Elsie," he apologises. "I am sorry. I won't be going to Scotland with the family. I don't know how I'll manage it, but I'll find a way," he promises and Elsie nods again, smiles again and she touches the gift that is in his lap.

"Open it," she orders and he obeys.

There's something soft, something woolly in the paper and he picks it up, examines it.

So he had understood her after all last night. He had heard her right and joy floods him, he doesn't know what to say, stumbles over his words.

"You're… we're… you? I mean? I don't know what I mean? Are you really?" He jumps up and pulls his wife to her feet, embraces her softly, kisses her temple again and again, and then he steps away, not letting go of her, holding on and he asks again: "You're with child?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." Elsie is crying now and Bonnie turns, calls for her daddy and he picks her up, brings her into the small, warm huddle that is his family and he kisses Elsie on the lips, pouring some of the love, the excitement, the intense feeling of happiness into his kiss.

"I'll never leave you again," he pledges. "I'll never be away from you. Neither of you." He laughs, a deep, joyful laugh that comes from deep within. "None of you. I'll never abandon you again."

* * *

3\. Was she this big when she was five months along with Bonnie? She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember being this tired, this irritable, this frustrated. She doesn't remember the heartburn and the sore feet. She doesn't remember always being so uncomfortable, her back always hurting.

The demands of the family are getting to her too. The young ladies are supposed to be looked after by the nursery staff - all hired by Lady Grantham** herself, Elsie has nothing to do with that and she wishes she had, because apparently the silly girls find it impossible to clean the nursery themselves, keep a linen rota. Elsie would be surprised if they could boil an egg themselves!

She sits in her parlour now, poring over yet another ledger, checking the ordering of cans of silver polish, of porridge oats, of starch and blueing. All of these she wouldn't need in a home of her own. She'd get through a whole year with one can of silver polish, she thinks. She'd be needing other things in a home of their own though. Her own sheets (which she'd embroider their initials on in bold, bright blue letters), her own wardrobe. Her own plates, glasses, teaspoons.

The baby kicks her swiftly, painfully and she groans. Bonnie had been a lot quieter (she chooses not to remind herself how she had hemmed Bonnie in, pulling her corset tight for months and months) and Elsie knows she is just annoyed right now, she is just trying to wrap her head around this new life growing inside of her - as unplanned as Bonnie had been, but celebrated, because this child was conceived within the safe constraints of wedlock.

New Year's Eve. Their daughter's first birthday; the day had held a promise of snow and just before teatime the first hint of snow had drifted down, little flecks of ice growing more and more into full flakes until the ground of the courtyard had been covered in a thin layer of cotton wool. They had wrapped Bonnie up warm and with Beryl they had led her outside to feel this new, miraculous thing.

Of course bells had rung after three minutes.

For three minutes they could pretend to be a family. A common family, with common wants and needs.

But they had celebrated their daughter's birthday with a small cake, provided by Beryl, with a few songs. Charles had danced with Bonnie in their rooms and they had tucked her in and then had their own, private celebration. Which had most probably resulted in this little acrobat.

She leans back and looks at her daughter in the corner. She is playing with a ball - rolling it against the wall and delighting as it comes back to her. Bonnie doesn't seem to be much affected by the absence of her father (the Season is at its height in May - one wedding after the other, parties every night, outings every day) nor by the altering figure of her mother.

Elsie rubs her belly. She has the overwhelming urge to cry, but she bites back the tears; tells herself she knew this was how things would be. She knew that when she married Charles, she'd be raising their daughter largely by herself. Not because he doesn't love Bonnie (the warmth in his eyes is apparent to anyone who cares to look when he plays with Bonnie) but because he will always put _the family _first.

Instead of _his family_.

And it hurts.

Gods, it hurts and tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill over on her cheeks. The first Season he'd been away had been hard, but this second one is unbearable. She misses his voice, the feeling of his bulk behind her as they sleep. She misses the way he tells Bonnie stories of his childhood and his plans for her future. She misses how they only need half a word to understand each other and she just wants him home. She wants him here, with her, with Bonnie, with this new bairn that presses against her hand now.

Her breasts still feel full and tender, even though Bonnie is eighteen months old and had weaned herself when her body started accommodating this little sibling for her. That same body is already preparing to welcome this new baby into the world and it is much too early - she knows nothing is wrong, she is allowed to monitor her body closely now, she is allowed to call upon Dr Clarkson with her questions and her worries - and she _needs_ Charles with her. She needs him to tell her that she is loved, that she is wanted, that he needs her the way she needs him. She has always told him he could hold on to her whenever he needs to feel steady, but she needs to hold on to him too. She is going on forty and she is pregnant with her second child and she is lonely - so lonely - she does remember that feeling very vividly from when she was carrying Bonnie.

Bonnie has fallen asleep whilst playing; her little bum is high up in the air, her head on her little arms. She is making little noises as she dreams and Elsie mutters, her eyes closed, her hands folded: "Please come home to us, Charles… I don't know how I am going to do this without you…"

She sits up straight then, opens her eyes and returns to her ledgers, her rotas, Charles' last letter and ignores the sounds of a carriage on the gravel outside, the opening and closing of the servants' entry door. There are always deliveries being made - even during the Season, when there's only the barest skeleton of staff left to look after the house. But the footfall in the corridor sounds familiar and her throat tightens. The baby starts moving more as the footsteps come closer. There's the creak of the hinges (they need tending to, but she liked the idea of Charles doing it when he returns to Downton, to pretend he'll fix things in their home - it's useless of course because it would never creak if it were their own house), a shadow falling into the room and she turns in her chair, swivelling round.

It's him.

Her hand flies to her mouth, trying to hold back the sound that comes forth - a scream and a sob and a bit of laughter all together at once and she gets up, falls into his arms and he holds her up, kisses her brow, her hair, pulls her close and lets out a chuckle when her belly collides with his sooner than he seems to expect.

He steps away and puts his hand on her bump, the baby presses up against it immediately.

"Hello, you," Charles says.

"Hello," Elsie responds, tears streaming over her cheeks. "You're not supposed to be here for… for…" she cannot finish her sentence, her mind is a muddle, she is overwhelmed by his sudden presence.

"Eight weeks. But Lord Grantham has taken her Ladyship to Paris for a week and I thought: I am going home. I am going to see my girls."

"Oh…" Elsie is so happy to hear him speak of her and Bonnie, she's never heard him refer to them as 'his girls' and it pleases her so greatly.

"I missed you so much." He is shrugging out of his coat and kneels down by his daughter, who is fast asleep still. He touches her cheek, her mop of dark curls and she finds he too is a bit overcome.

"We have missed you too."

"It's too long, Elsie, it's too far," he confesses then and she welcomes him into her waiting arms. Kisses him, insistently. Her hands run up and down the vast expanse of his chest. He is wearing his Sunday suit - there's no waistcoat, only his tweed coat and trousers, the perfectly pressed cotton of his shirt and she starts undoing his tie, slipping the buttons through their holes.

"She'll be sleeping for twenty minutes at least…" she whispers in his ear, placing the tiniest of kisses on the shell of his ear.

"That's hardly enough to make it to our rooms…" he says, kissing her back, rubbing his hands over her sides, tenderly smooths her dress over the bulge that hides their unborn child.

"I never said it needed to be in our rooms…" she knows it's naughty and she cannot help but giggle a bit. "There's hardly anyone about… Beryl won't be needing the store cupboard key today… there's been a delivery of coffee beans… they're in burlap sacks..."

Charles shakes his head at her in mock disapproval and then says: "I love the way you think, Mrs Carson."

* * *

* prams were expensive (they still are! bloody hell…) and most working class people didn't have one, they would carry their babies all over the place

** oftentimes, whilst the parents were partaking in the London Season, the children were left at home, with the nanny, the nurse and the rest of the staff


	40. joy

**A/N:** This is the end. I am both a bit sad and a bit happy to send this final chapter out into the world. Coming up with this 'choose your own adventure' direction came from the exceedingly lovely chelsie-carson/**HogwartsDuo**. Thank you **Dee** for beta'ing these last chapters, so much of what happens in these options exist because you planted a little seed and watered it.

Thank you all my regular voters, every single guest, every single one of you who PMed, everyone who reblogged or liked on Tumblr. Your encouragement and participation has meant the world to me. This fic really made me feel part of a wonderful, caring community. Thank you all so very, very much. *breaks into ugly Sally-Field-at -the-Oscars creys*

* * *

_Results for chapter 39:_

option 1. /

option 2. / /

option 3. / / / ← winning option

undecided. /

27 votes

(this is how my vote counter looked for every chapter - sometimes I added some remarks that people left me)

* * *

_Previously on One Year; option #3 (13 votes):_

"She'll be sleeping for twenty minutes at least…" she whispers in his ear, placing the tiniest of kisses on the shell of his ear.

"That's hardly enough to make it to our rooms…" he says, kissing her back, rubbing his hands over her sides, tenderly smooths her dress over the bulge that hides their unborn child.

"I never said it needed to be in our rooms…" she knows it's naughty and she cannot help but giggle a bit. "There's hardly anyone about… Beryl won't be needing the store cupboard key today… there's been a delivery of coffee beans… they're in burlap sacks..."

Charles shakes his head at her in mock disapproval and then says: "I love the way you think, Mrs Carson."

* * *

**_eighteen months later:_**

Derek squeals, sitting on his plump little bum, waving around the piece of a puzzle that had once been Bonnie's, but she had graciously given up (abandoned, more like) for a little stitched dolly her Auntie Beryl had brought with her on her last visit. The garden is big enough for a bench and a small table, a bit of lawn and rose bushes he looks after with a careful eye.

They're Elsie's.

Elsie's roses that he tends to with all the care and precision he once put into laying the table for thirty members of the aristocracy. It's Sunday. There's no post. There's only the chance of a telegram, but there hasn't been one in a while. He knows everyone on the village and he knows everything that's going on - his wife is a beloved member of the community, a welcomed guest on many a committee; what Elsie hears, Charles hears. He sits back, pulls his tie loose. He can hear Elsie's pretty voice coming from the kitchen; she is making them lunch - a roast dinner - it smells good, he can hear his stomach growl.

The sound of Elsie's song comes closer and there she is, standing next to him, wiping her hands on her apron. She is looking as beautiful as the day he'd first set eyes on her. As strong as she was when she handed out order after order, as exacting as she was when she checked up on every one of those orders. There's something softer about her now. There's the plumpness of her breast, the curve of her hip. He knows her in and out of the dress she is wearing (a pretty dress, one made for pleasure as well as practicality - so different from the black she used to wear; so different from the heavy taffeta with layers of skirts he would lift to please her on the sly), he knows how she instructs their little maid, Anna, the same way she would the maids at Downton when it was still her job to do so.

He knows that her birthday is coming up soon, but not before his and he knows what he wants and he has all of it here in his grasp:

A steady job as Postmaster of Downton. A home he can call his own. Friends he meets in the pub on Saturday evening. Two strong, healthy children in the nursery. A beautiful bride he adores.

He is happy. He is happy and he knows that five years ago he would not have imagined being so blessed. He had thought to live his life in the employment of another man, that he would carry tea trays for thirty-five more years and hopefully die in the harness. That he might get a tumble with Mrs Hughes now and then - he had loved her, had always loved her. It had always been more than just the raising of her skirts for him, more than a quick fumble against a desk or a wall.

He had come home after the Season to a pregnant lover. he had married her; she had given him the most perfect little girl and later his boy and he had known then: he could not polish more silver, couldn't decant more wine. It had been time to move on and here he is, on his bench in his garden, the smell of Elsie's roses in his nose, the softness of his wife against his side as she sits next to him.

"Aren't they beautiful?" she asks and he knows she means their small brood. He kisses her temple.

"You all are."

"You are a flatterer, Mr Carson," Elsie says with a smile in her voice.

She shifts, cuddles up closer. "You have a birthday coming up in a few weeks," she changes the subject. "Have you thought of anything you'd want as a present?"

He nods slowly. "I think I know something."

"Is it something I can give you this time around?" she asks, a little warning making her burr sound stronger. "Last year you asked me for the stars."

"Yes. Yes, I'd say it's something only you can give me."

Elsie chuckles. "Well, out with it then."

"How about you give me another one of those?" he points at his children, playing, laughing, speaking in their own language of half-formed sentences and little gurgles.

Elsie grabs his hand and he can feel how she is taking a deep breath.

"Well…" she starts, "We can always try."

"We've always had fun trying."

"Yes. Yes, we have, you're right." She sounds worried, sad almost.

"What the matter, love?"

"Well…" she starts and she squeezes his hand rather tightly. "Both Bonnie and Derek weren't exactly _planned_, were they… and I am getting older, Charles. I don't know…" she swallows, he sees how her jaw clenches.

He cannot help but smile. He reaches out, touches her cheek with his free hand, not letting her go with the other. "Don't give it a single worry, Elsie. I'll be happy to have you close to me. To have Bonnie and Derek to look after, to have this new life for us. Waking up to your smile."

He shrugs. "I'd be pleased with anything. Never give my silly notion another thought. Maybe some paper and a new nib for my pen for me to practice my writing. That will keep me occupied on those long winter nights that are going to be here soon."

"Charles, it's August."

"And it's time for lunch," he adds.

They smile at each other and Elsie pulls him up, goes over to the children and Bonnie runs to him. He catches her, picks her up, holding her high above him - she weighs less than a crate of wine and he's still strong - and she laughs. Elsie has picked up Derek and he's sitting on her hip, his head against her shoulder and she is the picture of beauty and calm.

Oh, he is happy. He is joyous. There is nothing in the world that could make his life better.

* * *

**_the night of his birthday:_**

"Maybe not so… forceful, my love…" Elsie whispers in his ear. She is under him, her nightgown rucked up, the buttons undone. He is cradled between her legs, his hand is on her breast and she's let out a quiet yelp when he palmed the soft mound - the way he often does.

He whispers his apology, picks up his gentle rhythm. It's the middle of the night, she's woken him with soft, insistent kisses, her hands trailing over his shoulders, gliding through his chest hair. She had nipped on his earlobe and when he had turned over, sleepily, not completely conscious yet, she had straddled him, the covers falling over her hips, revealing she had taken her hair down. He had grown hard instantly and she had moved against him, his pyjamas so very much in the way and they had rolled together, gotten rid of the offending garment and she had pulled him over her. She was so ready, warm, soft, wet.

"Happy birthday, Mr Carson…" she had breathed into his ear, welcoming him.

He had thrust forward, had made her cry out - always muffled these days, always careful not to wake the children and it's very different from trying not to be found out by other servants. Their children might get spooked a bit, but at least they won't fire their parents.

And now he is moving with her, a familiar rhythm, a pleasurable flow of senses and excitement. She is so eager, almost aggressive, but slaps his hands away from her breasts, gently pushes him away when he licks her nipples and it dawns on him (late, he knows, but he had been _preoccupied_).

He sits up with a jerk, pulling out, shaking his head a bit. Elsie gasps at the sudden movement, the loss of him.

There's not a fibre of him asleep anymore.

"My birthday present… the one you asked me about a few weeks ago…"

Elsie presses her lips together, he can see her blush in the faint light, the sparkle in her eyes; a smile deepening the dimples in her cheeks.

She nods.

"Oh…"

He doesn't know what to say. There's a silence in the room that feels heavy with anticipation, but he doesn't know what to do, how to react.

"Aren't you pleased?" Elsie's voice is so small, so worried and he carefully lies down next to her, gathers her in his arms.

"I _am_ pleased… I am overwhelmed, Elsie. My love, you said… I had not expected… I don't know…"

He starts crying and Elsie laughs softly, starts kissing his tears away, pulls her nightgown over her head, wipes the tears that follow away with the soft, well-worn cotton.

"I had not expected it either. And I think that when you asked, I was already… and it's been so hard keeping it from you, I've known for two weeks now."

"You little minx."

"Oh, don't you blame me, Mr Carson, I think it is you who has trouble staying away from me. It takes two to make a baby, you know."

"Yes… I know. I know! Elsie! What a gift. I'm… I don't know what to say." He kisses her brow, her cheeks, her lips and she kisses him back, harder, and before he knows it, he's deep within her again, rocking her, caressing her with tender fingers: the soft skin of her upper arms, the falling and swelling slope of her breasts (oh, she is with child, alright, he thinks to himself, they are already getting heavy, sensitive), the softness of her belly - her one area of insecurity, the skin never returned to its former tautness after the births of Bonnie and Derek, but he couldn't care less: she has carried his children, the shimmering silver lines a testament to her bravery and strength and now there's a little one in there again growing strong, safely cared for).

She is moving on top of him frantically, her moans short and soulful.

"Touch me…" she asks and he obliges happily.


End file.
